Mimic
by Midnight Chrysanthemum
Summary: The sequal to 'Metamorphosis'. The 00team has yet to recover from their previous trial, but Black Ghost is already setting a new plan into action...
1. Premonition

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Well, I still don't own the rights to Cyborg 009… which comes as no big surprise, right? This would be the continuation of 'Metamorphosis', my first fanfiction for Cyborg 009. If you haven't read though that already, then this will make very little sense, so it's best to finish that first.

~ * Premonition * ~

The project was being rushed to completion, much to the dismay of its supervisors.

The order had been issued nearly two weeks ago, though the project had already been in development before then. An offshoot of a proposal initially made by one Doctor Tenkan, it had been stepped up following his termination after his primary assignment ended in failure. Before then, it had been mostly experimentation -- testing to see if what he suggested had any real merit.

After all, it sounded nice on paper, but could it work in principle? The morphing technology had been developed primarily for usage in reconnaissance missions, to enable a cyborg to gather information undetected.

It had merit, Black Ghost soon declared. There was no such thing as a cyborg that was incapable of using its powers to kill; that was the intention for all their meshes of machine and man.

And when Black Ghost gave his opinion, everyone accepted it as law.

So the testing had begun, using mostly hastily constructed test subjects to gauge the effects of the virus before developing a final version. There had been errors made, casualties of the project, but that was to be expected. The road to achievement was always lined with minor delays.

Finally the virus was judged ready for release, and the latest attempt to destroy the renegades was well under way.

However, the tests had yielded some interesting results, and many working on the project saw the most obvious way to further apply the data they had obtained. The virus unlocked an exciting new facet of the shapeshifting ability that begged to be explored and exploited.

And so the new project began in full force: development of the perfect assassin.

This cyborg would be created using both the transformation ability and the virus from the beginning, a melding of technology. In this manner the scientists hoped to create a clean merging, the infection becoming a vital piece of programming rather than something introduced later on to control other problems.

After the original project failed, Black Ghost appeared personally to them and informed the team that he expected swift results. He already had more plans to deal with the rebels, a plot which required the use of this wonderful assassin they promised.

Since then, the project had gone from an interesting sideline to the be-all and end-all of their work in the shadow organization, the single thing to which they devoted their time and energy.

Already several members of the original team were dead, terminated whenever their leader judged his scientists were not dedicated enough to their work.

Most of those deaths coincided with the loss of several of their specimens. A malfunction here, a rejected operation there, the simplest mistake usually ended in a fatality or two. A scientist died for every subject lost.

Yet those who remained or were rerouted to the project found hope in the fact that one of the subjects was shaping up to be very strong indeed. Nobody was certain exactly what had gone right in this case that went wrong with others, but dared not question it. For this cyborg was a lifeline, the only chance they held for seeing this assignment become a success.

There were still being others developed, in case this one also failed for some reason, but the wisest among them realized that, should that occur, they would never see the project to completion.

Black Ghost already judged this one as the fittest; the tyrant often visited the laboratory to check up on their progress, and singled out this survivor as the one he favored. Occasionally he would stand before the tube in which the cyborg was being held while the workers scurried about their tasks, running one black-gloved hand over the smooth surface of the glass and chuckling deep in his throat, making low comments to himself on the progress.

Soon, he told them, soon they would unleash their precious child, their wonderful perfect assassin, upon the unsuspecting rebel 00-numbers. Soon, while they were still weakened from their previous encounter, before they emerged from hiding from their own free will… They would track them down first and strike!

Black Ghost had waited long enough. He could wait a bit longer, but only at the cost of more blood from his lowly subordinates. Weaklings and fools, the whole lot of them; holding up progress! They held no place in his new world order…

Running his fingers over the delightfully frigid glass, peering at the cyborg known as prototype 'Mimic' through his own reflection, Black Ghost chortled and planned his continued ascension to power while behind him foolish scientists attended to their life's work.

~ * ~

There are times when people become so entrapped by illusions that they fail to see them for what they are, and times when they can see clearly through the fantasy their subconscious weaves. For Joe Shimamura, it was one of the latter times. He was fully aware he was dreaming.

Of course, the fact that he was suspended in a completely black, featureless void may have had something to do with it.

The youthful leader of the renegade cyborgs looked around slowly, hoping to pick out some sort of break in the darkness surrounding him. Even though he knew it was a dream, it was a strange sensation all the same: he almost would have labeled it floating, except that there wasn't really any feeling of being in midair at all. Still, he couldn't feel any floor beneath his feet, either, though he supposed there must be something there considering the fact that he wasn't falling…

(That or gravity doesn't apply in dreams either.)

He turned his head from side to side, dismayed with how the darkness seemed to stretch out into infinity. Joe was rapidly beginning to wish that he'd just wake up if nothing was going to happen: how boring it would be to have to wait through this all night!

…Then again, he probably wouldn't remember it in the morning so long as nothing happened. Besides, given some of the nightmares he'd been presented with in the past, maybe this wasn't such a horrible way to spend his rest after all…

Of course, his subconscious probably took that as a challenge, or at least that was the first thing to occur to Joe when he caught a flicker of movement just out of the corner of his eye.

Turning around, Joe blinked, and even as a tiny part of his heart sank with the knowledge that this probably wasn't going to end well couldn't help but speak, his voice sounding small against the black expanse:

"G.B.…?"

If Britain overheard his query, the shapeshifter showed no sign of it. The former actor had his back turned in the direction of his young leader, his attention focused on something concealed by the slope of his body. He wasn't dressed in the vibrant red-and-gold uniform that all the cyborgs usually wore into battle, the same attire in which Joe himself was clad. Instead he wore a dingy gray sweatshirt and darker gray slacks, the dull clothing blending into the shadows enough to blur his outline.

They didn't suit him at all.

Joe wasn't certain if he was actually going to say that, or if something else motivated him to open his mouth, for the words died on his tongue before he could speak.

Britain turned just enough that Joe was able to get a clear look at what he held cradled tightly against his chest. The silver barrel shone brilliantly against the drab gray wool. The blaster appeared the only hint of light in the darkness, the curved metal glittering like a sliver of the moon.

The actor turned the shining pistol over in his hands, drinking in the light with empty eyes for several moments before resting the barrel against his chest.

"_No--!_"

Joe bit down hard on the trigger in his molar, already stepping forward before his acceleration was activated.

…Only the mode failed to activate, and his left foot shot unimpeded through space.

"Whoa…!"

Joe floundered, not quite spinning in midair, but not exactly moving at all. He attempted to correct his lost balance with another step, but his other leg refused to respond -- and, when he looked down, there was only empty darkness where his right leg should have been.

"What…?!" he gasped, cutting himself short and looking desperately toward his friend.

The commotion had gained Britain's attention; the actor met Joe's frantic stare with an emotionless gaze.

No… that wasn't quite true. While his facial features were composed into perfect neutrality, his eyes were filled with a terrible sadness, projecting to the helpless young cyborg a complete sense of resignation.

Then they closed, and the muffled whine of a laser shot shattered the darkness.

"……" Joe's mouth gaped, but he still couldn't find his voice. The scream was wedged in his throat, a needle of agony cleaving his heart, but before he could force it to the surface, the shadows shifted.

Britain's body had been pitched backward by the contained blast, the hole in his chest barely visible through the darkness. But now he halted suddenly, as if falling back against something -- or something else arrested his progress.

As Joe stared, a hand gradually became visible in the darkness, fingers wrapping tightly around Britain's right arm. The black digits slid smoothly up to the actor's wrist and gently disentangled his grip on the laser, allowing the gleaming pistol to fall and be consumed by the shadows.

There was a presence behind the shapeshifter -- no, draped around him, almost, so close to be his shadow. From where he watched, helpless to act, Joe could see more features manifesting; another hand wrapping over Britain's chest, spread fingers pawing at the edge of the ragged wound. He saw Britain flinch at the touch, a slight tightening around his eyes, though the rest of his face remained impassive.

His eyes, though, locked upon Joe's again, silently pleading for help.

A second figure materialized then, born from the shadows like the first, only this time the darkness rearranged themselves into features Joe recognized, found all too familiar. A skeletal face leered at him, twin orbs of sickly gold sparking into existence above the despotic smirk.

The darkness billowed out behind and before Black Ghost like a cloak, a cape that he grandly brought up to wrap around the shapeshifter, sneering all the while at the watching 009.

"…W-wait!"

Too late Joe found his voice, too late his hands found some sort of purchase in the dark and allowed him to push upright, though without his missing leg he still couldn't stand, couldn't hope to interfere.

With a grand flourish of his cape Black Ghost vanished, taking Britain and his other shadowed companion with him.

Joe was left alone in the void, staring at the empty space where they had been, crippled and useless and screaming.

"G.B.…!"

And suddenly he was free from the nightmare, bolting upright in a rustle of sheets and sweat. For a few moments all Joe could do was stare off into space as the features of the room came into focus through the darkness; there was little light in the chamber, but still far more than there had been in his dream.

Then, after his breathing had reached something close to a normal, not quite so frantic pace, he pitched off what remained of his sheets that still covered his body to the far corner of the bed and swung off the other side.

Both feet hit the ground with a dull thud, and Joe winced slightly at the impact. Doctor Gilmore had done a miraculous job rebuilding his right leg, but he still wasn't fully adjusted to it. On the outside, it looked much the same, skin grafted over it and all, but there was a delicate rebalance he hadn't quite adjusted to yet.

It hardly seemed a problem, however. Joe was able to stand up easily enough and crossed the room without incident.

He stopped dead in his tracks next to the other bed in the room, and stood staring down at its occupant, gradually allowing his heart to slow to its normal pace and his panting to completely subside.

Doctor Gilmore had decided that, for the time being, the three cyborgs who'd been injured the most heavily during their previous encounter with Black Ghost's work were to room together until they recovered. The scientist himself had taken the room immediately adjacent; if anything amiss happened while they were asleep an alarm would rouse the good doctor and bring him running.

But the chamber remained mostly silent now, save for the soft rasp of Joe's breath and the faint snores of his sleeping companions.

Albert was tucked up in another cot; a quick glance in his direction yielded the comforting sight of his silver-topped head resting against the pillow which the German hugged with both arms. It was actually kind of funny: Joe hadn't had him pegged as the type to sleep like that.

As for Britain, the former actor was curled up with his sheets pulled so tightly around him it seemed his intent was to hold himself together using the cocoon. In the dim lighting, Joe traced the slope of his shrouded body, looking in vain for some sign of anything amiss.

Nothing. Nothing… his nightmare had been just that. There was no gun, and no sign that one was nearby. The sheets concealed only Britain's sleeping form and not that of a weapon.

Nor was there any sign of any unwanted visitors…

Joe sighed, his shoulders sagging with relief. His imagination was playing nasty tricks on him, making him jump at harmless shadows.

Still, his garnet-stone irises shimmered with emotion as he continued to gaze down at his sleeping comrade. Just because the terror of the night was only an illusion didn't mean all their problems passed with a fading dream. There was still reality left, and what the virus had left behind…

"…Poor G.B.," he whispered, chin dropping to his chest while his eyelids sagged, half-concealing ruby irises flooded with sorrow.

Morning would come soon, but even though it promised freedom from his private nightmares for the time being, Joe was all too aware it also meant another day of trying to deal with what wasn't a passing fantasy…


	2. Examination

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The disclaimer is in the previous chapter; yay for not getting sued!

~ * Examination * ~

Doctor Gilmore rose early that morning, as he had for most mornings following that horrible day where the rebels had been turned against one another. A steaming mug of coffee warmed his hands and helped to drive the weariness from his bones, though it did little to relax the lines of worry marring his face.

Over the course of their underwater flight, Gilmore had spent the majority of his waking hours repairing the cyborgs. Out of their entire team, only Francoise, Chang, Ivan and himself had escaped physically unscathed.

Considering how the Russian infant had fallen asleep shortly after the situation was defused, his psychic energy spent, Gilmore wasn't entirely certain he could count the child among the uninjured. However, there was nothing the scientist could do to rouse the baby; Ivan would wake up on his own after resting as long as it was required.

Only twelve days had passed since the incident. Ivan normally slept for fifteen days straight. There was no reason to worry just yet about the sleeping child, and after all he had accomplished during that horrible day, Gilmore was inclined to simply allow him to rest.

As for the others, some repairs had gone swifter and easier than others.

Pyunma had, perhaps, fared the best of the team. His uniform had taken far more of a beating than he had, the worst of his injuries a hole that had been burned into his left shoulder by a laser. This was simple enough to repair, though Gilmore performed a cursory check of the joint underneath just to ensure it hadn't been damaged beyond the superficial. Thankfully, it checked out to be fine, and Pyunma was clear to return to the bridge and oversee the Dolphin's course.

Jet had been a bit more difficult, despite Gilmore knowing exactly what his injury was and how to repair it. The most trying part of that was convincing the stubborn lad to come get his leg fixed. Jet repeatedly insisted that he wasn't having any problems, that he could walk just fine, thank you, and shouldn't he be more concerned about the others first?

Finally, after ensuring that the others were completely stable and well on their way to recovery, Gilmore managed to get the hawk to submit to the repairs he needed. The good doctor was simply thankful that Jet hadn't injured himself worse in the meantime, and that it was a relatively easy operation to mend his shorted-out booster.

Geronimo Junior had one of the more severe injuries: a well-executed trap left his right arm almost completely inoperable, the inside shredded from having a spear driven up the length of his forearm and wrenched out. The strongman bore this grievous wound in his usual stoic manner, never once breathing a word of his discomfort to the good doctor.

Gilmore didn't know whether to be more thankful or annoyed with the gentle giant. There was no need for G-Junior to play the martyr; he had enough difficulty dealing with Jet's stubbornness as it was! True, the fiery redhead was far more vocal about his refusal, but the basic concept driving their behavior was the same.

Even Geronimo's injury, however, paled in comparison with the rest of their wounded.

From what he gathered from the others' reports, Albert had actually faced off one-on-one against Britain in an attempt to buy Pyunma and Joe time to escape and regroup. That definitely explained how the 'living arsenal' had ended up so badly trashed; surely had anyone realized how badly he would fare they would have done everything in their power to assist him.

When he first caught a glimpse of Albert's condition after the battle ended, Doctor Gilmore was completely stunned by how extensive his wounds were. Terrible gashes lined most of his body, leaving his uniform in shreds. The outfit was completely unsalvageable, but thankfully, the German had hung on long enough for the scientist to save his life.

Doctor Gilmore wondered if Chang's presence had anything to do with that. The fire-breathing cyborg had been the first to discover Albert in this horrible state and had stayed by his side, encouraging him not to give up and promising that things would turn out for the best in the end.

The scientist took a sip from his steaming mug and shook his head slowly. He only hoped that it turned out the chef was not making empty promises when he convinced Albert to stay conscious.

The reason that Albert had taken on Britain solo in the first place was because, by that point, their leader had already taken a serious injury and could no longer assist in combat.

An error in judgement had cost Joe his right leg. The viral Britain had ripped the entire limb free from its socket, effectively disabling 009's acceleration mode and ensuring the younger cyborg would be incapable of interfering with his continued assassination attempts.

Though this had not been the extent of Joe's wounds -- he also suffered several scrapes and gotten tossed around quite a bit, not to mention nearly being asphyxiated before things were brought under control -- it was definitely his most serious. The boy spent several days confined to a cot before Gilmore had a replacement limb completed and grafted on. Since then, they had been taking it slowly, testing the new appendage under controlled circumstances.

There was no judging when Black Ghost might rear his ugly head again, after all. Gilmore wanted to be absolutely certain they were in the best possible condition before that happened. The last thing they needed was to face him at partial strength, considering all the other advantages the dark organization possessed…

…Which brought his thoughts back to Great Britain and his condition.

Again Gilmore shook his head and sighed heavily. To be certain, the shapeshifter had fared the worst of the lot. There was no disputing that fact. Though the Englishman was remaining uncharacteristically quiet about what exactly he had gone through, Gilmore already knew enough about the situation to recognize how trying the ordeal must have been.

Britain couldn't simply act as if nothing was amiss, his talent in such fields notwithstanding. In fact, he wasn't attempting that sort of fruitless deception at all…

The doorway behind him slid open with a barely audible whoosh, and Gilmore turned to watch the bald cyborg meander into the room. The elderly scientist smiled, an attempt at being reassuring that went completely ignored by his one-person audience. Britain barely glanced his way, offering nothing more than a cursory wave in his direction.

There was no trace of G.B.'s former glib manner and exaggerated flair. He took his seat across from the doctor quietly, eyes downcast and carefully averted away from his companion. Between his behavior and drab attire -- a dark sweater and pants combination that seemed better suited to someone like the shy and quiet Albert -- the actor seemed little more than a shadow of his old self.

The scientist's smile gradually faded, and he shifted uncomfortably before turning his attention to the task at hand.

"…Well, shall we get started, then?"

The prompt failed to even warrant a nod from the former actor. Gilmore would have found it almost annoying if it weren't for the fact this scene had already played out several times before. He could hardly fault Britain for his lack of enthusiasm.

Still, the tests needed to be run, and data needed to be gathered.

A tray rested on the counter between them; Britain picked up its contents gingerly, careful not to prick himself with the needle prematurely. Automatically Gilmore started to reach forward to help; his outstretched hand went ignored, and the Englishman inserted the sharp instrument into the back of his wrist without so much as flinching.

It was Doctor Gilmore who winced, involuntarily. It wasn't exactly advisable to let one's patient handle the setup of equipment like this.

More disturbing to him, however, was the Englishman's lack of protest. He hadn't applied anything to deaden the area where the needle was inserted, simply stuck it in without batting an eye. At least he hadn't outright jabbed it into place: that would have been a sure sign that one of the possibilities the scientist feared was true.

As it was, Gilmore could only wonder, and consult the data he gathered in hopes of uncovering more pieces of the puzzle.

Now Britain did look at him, expectantly, and this time it was Gilmore who averted his eyes to the computer display. He hated this sense of awkwardness between them, the disconnection he knew loomed between the rest of the team and the formerly goofy, formerly happy-go-lucky shapeshifting cyborg. It definitely didn't help the situation any, and Gilmore had the sinking feeling that the longer things went unresolved, the further apart 007 would drift from the others.

Quickly he pressed the familiar sequence of keys, bringing up the desired readout. The thin wire that stretched from one of the ports in the computer terminal to the needle embedded in his patient's arm relayed the required data, an up-to-the-second readout of the cyborg's diagnostics.

"All right, 007, I'm ready to proceed whenever you are," he prompted.

Britain nodded, once, and the corner of his mouth quirked upward slightly into a faint imitation of a smirk. Apparently some private joke had just occurred to him. But nothing close to that weak glimmer of humor touched his dark eyes, which continued to bore into the scientist.

"What do you think, Doctor, a cat today, maybe?"

Gilmore did not reply. Britain didn't expect one, however. He nodded again, seemingly to himself, keeping his head bowed when his chin brushed his chest.

His right hand, the one from which the wire protruded, fell down to his stomach, and with a swift, practiced movement he pressed down hard on his bellybutton.

Absolutely nothing happened.

The only sound in the chamber was the faint whirring of equipment, the steady blip of the computer as it continued its readout, informing its user that nothing out of the ordinary was occurring with the cyborg it monitored.

(There's nothing out of the ordinary unless you happen to know that _something's_ supposed to be happening,) Gilmore reminded himself as once again a pang of disappointment shot through him, the same way it had for each morning they came up negative. (Nothing…)

The maddening part of it was that, while Gilmore knew exactly what was supposed to be happening and wasn't, the _why_ eluded him. _Why_ wasn't the transformation triggering?

His studies of the virus, posthumous as they mostly turned out to be, had revealed some disturbing truths about how exactly it went about its work, along with a partial explanation of how this must have occurred. After initial introduction into the body, the infection spread quickly, overriding all basic functions.

As part of this takeover, it disconnected the ability to manually trigger a transformation. It only made sense to do so, ensuring that the victim would be completely unable to counter whatever the virus then forced his body to do.

But the virus had been destroyed before it could fulfil the rest of its programming, first through Ivan's psychic efforts and later through the vaccine Gilmore himself constructed. Hopefully the treatment he'd administered had flushed what remained of those shattered webs clear of 007's system: they certainly didn't need any other surprises popping up.

While the virus itself had been dealt with, however, Gilmore had no idea how to remedy this little problem it left behind.

How could he 'reconnect' the ruined programming when he didn't fully understand just how the virus had rendered it inoperable in the first place?

Everything checked out clear; there were no obvious flaws to be found despite the fact that something had to be failing somewhere. It was like an invisible wall had been erected, blocking the ability to effect a transformation somewhere along the line without visibly obstructing the flow of data.

Gilmore was, by nature, a fairly patient man. Experience had long taught him that little was to be gained and much more to be lost by rushing through matters without gathering as much data as possibly and carefully weighing decisions.

Yet that didn't keep a teeny, tiny part of the scientist from wanting to slam his fists down into the keyboard and let loose with a string of curses that might have made even Jet blush from shock.

That more violent impulse was kept reined in by the good doctor, however, and he settled instead for a deep sigh and sorrowful shake of his head, sympathetic gaze traveling once more to settle on his patient.

Britain was already rising to his feet, pulling the needle from his wrist with a practiced ease. He didn't comment on the results, but his thoughts were, for the most part, clear enough to Gilmore at that moment.

G.B. hadn't expected it to work.

Why should he have? It hadn't worked the morning before, or two days prior, or any of the times they had conducted this test following that first attempt. Back then, Gilmore had been completely shocked by the results, or lack thereof, and the former actor…

…Even then, Britain hadn't acted too stunned by the revelation that he could no longer control his shapeshifting ability.

Gilmore didn't know what to make of the Englishman's lack of reaction. Was it simply a case of where too many shocks over too short a period had rendered him temporarily immune to such things? After all the other horrors the virus had put him through, did he regard this final hurdle as no big problem?

Or… was he relieved?

Gilmore studied the cyborg closely as he left the room, until the doorway slid shut behind his retreating form. There was no hint of relief in his resigned expression or careful movements… but then, the scientist was finding it practically impossible to read anything into what the once expressive actor was thinking or feeling.

There was always the possibility that he wasn't even trying, that Britain didn't want to discover what was keeping his shapeshifting from functioning properly. If he didn't want to have it anymore…

The concept was astounding; out of all of the cyborgs, G.B. had always seemed to adapt the most easily to his new 'gift'. The ability to change shapes as he pleased was a good fit for the talented actor, and one he always appeared to enjoy showing off even when not coping with Black Ghost's latest machinations. He'd adjusted well…

…And then the virus came and turned everything around, setting Britain against his friends and leaving him a practical opposite of his former self.

Gilmore's face fell into his hands, his fingers digging into his furrowed brow while he pondered the issue. So much had changed over the past few weeks, following what should have been a simple restful outing, that it seemed almost obvious that facet of Britain's personality could have also changed.

However, Gilmore refused to believe that Britain was deceiving him, unintentionally or otherwise.

(I'm second-guessing myself,) he chided himself mentally, (imaging things. Instead of creating new problems out of thin air, I should be focusing on the ones that already exist. The answers are right in front of me, I'm sure of it…)

He only prayed that he would find them in time, before other, very real concerns came storming back into their lives.


	3. Irritation

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The disclaimer can be found in the first chapter. Um… sorry to disappoint, but while I have nothing against slash pairings, I'm not planning to use any in this series. Gomen to those of you who were hoping for it…

~ * Irritation * ~

"When are we going to stop hiding and actually do something?"

Pyunma favored his ranting companion with a cursory glance over the top of his book.

"When we're ready," was his succinct response, dark marine gaze quickly returning to the crisp black lettering.

Jet snorted, far from satisfied by the sorry excuse for an answer. All they'd done lately was run and wait and hope they didn't run into any Black Ghost flunkies. He was sick of it!

It wasn't like Jet couldn't understand why they'd needed to take to the Dolphin and set out. Though he hated to admit it, G.B. had done a pretty good number on most of them before they managed to take him down, and naturally Black Ghost would love to take advantage of their weakness…

But that had been _weeks_ ago -- well, actually, not quite two weeks yet, but _still_…! They'd gotten repaired; Pyunma no longer had a hole in his shoulder, G-Junior could use his arm again, Albert wasn't looking like he'd been blindsided by a pissed-off lion, and Joe had a brand-new leg! Not to mention his damaged booster had been neatly repaired and wasn't any worse the wear for being put off…

The only one who hadn't been fixed up good as new was G.B.…

But that wasn't Jet's fault, or Doctor Gilmore's, or _anyone's_ -- except, of course, that damned Black Ghost.

Jet ground his teeth together, copper eyes blazing underneath the fiery spikes of his wild bangs. In his mind, Black Ghost was the only one responsible for the hell they'd been through, this latest incident just another bid to ruin their lives.

But he couldn't _do_ anything about it while trapped in this glorified fishbowl! This wasn't solving anything at all! They should be looking for clues, figuring out where the base of operations the shadow organization had launched this plot from, then blast their way in and get some much-needed answers…

It wasn't the grandest of plans, maybe, but at least it was immediate, and they'd actually be doing something other than running away from their problems.

(So what if G.B. can't fight. Like we're really going to make him come battle with us when he could just get hit by another copy of that damned virus?!)

His eyes narrowed into glittering slits of bronze, hands clenching into fists that he kept rigid at his sides.

(…Least he can't have a relapse if he can't transform…)

Why did everyone else seem so convinced that 007 had been cured of the virus? It wasn't like Ivan had thought to explain exactly what the hell he did to knock the shapeshifter out in the first place before going sleepy-bye himself.

All they had to go on was G.B.'s word… what little they'd coaxed out of him. The only thing the Englishman really said concerning the incident was that Ivan saved him by attacking and destroying the virus with his psychic powers -- and that was about the extent of what he related of his experience.

Doctor Gilmore had run some tests, and was still carrying on a few more concerning the latest problem that had cropped up, but the scientist assured the rest of the team that it did, in fact, appear that the virus had been destroyed.

Jet wasn't totally convinced. To blindly trust that everything'd been resolved just with one major psychic shock courtesy of their resident telepath… how naïve could the others get?

It wasn't like things were completely back to normal. G.B. was pretty much a polar opposite of how he'd been before. Slinking around the Dolphin, avoiding the rest of the team whenever he could, rarely meeting their gaze for more than a few seconds, always acting so goddamned guilty…

He was sick and tired of the whole damn thing! It wasn't like anybody was blaming G.B. for what happened; Black Ghost was the one responsible for the stupid plot! They all knew the virus was the one forcing him to attack them; even Jet hadn't ever claimed it was the actor's fault! The only one convinced otherwise was Britain himself, and the way he crept around like an unwelcome guest was getting on Jet's last nerve…

(Get me off this damned ship and let me go after Black Ghost! I need something to tear apart for this…!)

For now, however, the only target his fist found was one of the walls, as he turned and drove his knuckles against the reinforced, curved surface. It wasn't half as satisfying as punching out the lights of some hapless soldier would have been, but, unfortunately, it would have to serve as an unsatisfactory alternative for now.

Pyunma glanced up from his book again, studying the fuming redhead with no small amount of distaste. While he could sympathize with Jet's fury, having more than a few matters he wouldn't mind resolving with good old-fashioned violence, brute force wasn't going to help them here.

Pyunma understood too well the value of knowing when to race off to face the enemy and when to hang back and tend one's wounds. While the physical side of their injuries were mostly healed, the blows to morale and spirit were more damaging, and needed more time and care to mend. The combat specialist understood this, and respected this.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

His navy gaze returned to his volume, but Pyunma nudged the bookmark free from its previous resting spot and tucked it carefully into place between the fragile white pages. Shutting the paperback, he set it aside. The tales of high fantasy and magic-wielding heroes would keep for another time when he didn't have his own short-tempered comrade to deal with.

"Come on." He stood, meeting the frustrated hawk's glance with a steady stare. "I'm going to get some sparring done; you in?"

His intent was obvious; a few rounds of one-on-one combat would burn off some of the excess energy and hopefully take a bit of the edge off both men's anxiety. Still, Jet accepted with a nod and a smirk, bronze eyes flashing with anticipation.

"Sure, if you don't mind losing," he replied, lacing his fingers together and cracking his knuckles with a slight flex of his wrists.

Pyunma just smirked back at the cocky American, folding his own arms over his chest. He didn't have to toss back some brazen taunt to inform Jet that he wasn't expecting to lose easily. Shaking his head slightly, the aquatic expert followed his partner out the door and towards the training area.

~ * ~

His hands slid up the length of his forearms, pressing the thick weave against both his palms and the hidden limbs. The tops of both sleeves fell away from his hands, not quite long enough to cover his fingers, especially when he moved them like this.

…Why couldn't he seem to get warm enough?

He'd been lucky enough to find this sweater; while he liked certain deeper hues of colors like green and blue, Britain didn't normally have a taste for extremely dark, drab clothes. But he knew that darker colors trapped heat better than lighter ones, and this was the heaviest, darkest sweater he'd been able to locate.

Britain would have gotten some gloves, too, except for the fact that he didn't have any on hand. Albert probably had plenty, and if he asked might let him borrow a pair, except…

__

-- there was 004 writhing in his grasp, bound by ropes that once had been his fingers and now were turning into flexible edges that tore into his uniform and the flesh underneath --

His fingers convulsed, tightening impulsively around the woolen sleeves with such force that the tips dug into the skin underneath. Screwing his eyes shut, Britain took in several heaving breaths, sucking air into his lungs with badly contained gasps until the memory subsided.

It took a few minutes before he judged it safe to reopen his eyes and risk a quick glance around. The hallway had been deserted before, he was certain of it, but…

No, he was safe; none of the other cyborgs were in sight. Britain sighed and looked down at the floor, leaning slightly against the wall for support.

His arms hurt a little where his own fingers dug into them, but he didn't loosen his grip for a while. In a way, the pain was comforting: it was something to feel other than simply cold… or numb.

It wasn't as bad as it had been, really. Before, when the virus was controlling his body, the only sensations he felt were after-effects, echoes of the blows he dealt to his former friends. There was also occasionally pain from their counter-attacks, but even though that was magnified by the infection, rerouted to him in full, it hadn't been nearly as bad as feeling…

__

-- Joe's throat in his hand, the already injured leader's breath coming in ragged gasps as his grip gradually tightened --

…But it was okay now, because it wouldn't happen again. It couldn't happen again because he couldn't transform anymore.

…He couldn't fight anymore.

Britain wandered aimlessly down the hallway, staring mostly at the floor. He looked up only briefly now and then to ensure no one else was around; he half-expected Joe to limp round the corner and spot him, or Jet to storm by with one of his deadly glares ready.

The others had talents beyond the scope of the abilities Black Ghost had 'bestowed' upon them. People like Joe, Jet and Pyunma brought their own styles of fighting to the fray beyond their powers of speed or flight or… swimming really, really well. The compassionate Joe was a natural leader; the fiery Jet was streetwise and could hold his own in a flat-out brawl; Pyunma was a swift thinker with a knack for quickly gauging a situation and coming up with sound strategies.

Even those who weren't natural fighters were crucial to their team. Chang was a wonderful cook, of course, and Francoise was always so kind and sweet. Geronimo seemed to be perfectly attuned with nature, and little Ivan, when he was awake, always provided some fresh observations on life from his point of view. Doctor Gilmore kept them all healthy and helped them in ways he couldn't even begin to describe; words failed to express just how much they owed the scientist.

And Britain? He didn't see how his years in the theater would be much help to them now.

He'd tried, before, to help keep everyone's spirits up when he could. Though Britain wasn't a starry-eyed optimist -- actually, he tended toward cynicism, albeit lightened by humor -- he tried to look on the bright side of things, for his sake as much as for the sakes of his new family.

In a way, it was almost like his old theater group; just a band of fellows up against the world, admittedly on a much grander scope than he could have ever imagined back in London. If anything, he had thought the bonds were a little tighter, considering that they had to trust each other with their lives.

Those ties didn't seem nearly as strong as they once had.

More and more, Britain wondered if he was currently a hazard to the team. Not an immediate threat, anymore, in the sense that he wasn't on a virus-induced rampage, but…

…If he couldn't shapeshift, he couldn't fight.

He didn't even have the standard-issue cyborg three-in-one laser pistol anymore; his was currently in Gilmore's care, to be returned after this latest issue with his malfunctioning ability was worked out. If Black Ghost did attack, he couldn't be expected to fight in his condition, or so the good doctor had ruled.

The others didn't trust him with his gun anymore.

Probably rightfully so, if Britain was to be brutally honest with himself. The thought had occurred to him that there was a simple way to bring an end to his problems.

But even if he had the means, following through with that concept seemed pointless. It wasn't like it was the only way to prevent him from hurting the others again -- he didn't have the capacity to possibly hurt them anymore.

Gradually, he became aware of muffled noises coming from one of the doors further down the hall. Though Britain had a sneaking suspicion what was causing the familiar sounds, when he reached the doorway itself, he couldn't resist cracking it open a few inches to peer inside.

Just as he expected, there was another training session taking place. Though he didn't slide the portal open all the way, Britain could see enough of the room as it was, and could clearly see Pyunma and Jet getting a little combat practice.

Neither man was armed, though both were clad in the same bright scarlet uniforms. The closest thing they had to weapons were their own fists, which was more than enough for each of them. Jet was moving constantly, not flying, at least, not with the assistance of the jet boosters in his heels, but still gliding around his opponent all the same.

Pyunma, meanwhile, was scarcely moving at all, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back as he watched his opponent carefully, gauging his moves.

It wasn't like the two were blindly trading punches or engaged in some overblown deathmatch. The punches they threw were mostly feints or jabs that were quickly blocked -- a test of each other's reflexes and reactions more than anything else.

Watching them practice, Britain remembered how he couldn't hope to match their raw skill at combat. Theirs was a natural talent, they were young, agile, strong…

__

-- but he'd beaten them anyway, beaten them into the ground and proving he could match their skills just by transforming his body the way they never could --

Tearing his gaze away from the duo and clumsily pushing the ajar doorway shut, Britain turned on his heel and ran.

It was pointless; he couldn't escape what he'd done, and yet just the fact that he could run, that his feet obeyed his desire to flee even though there was nowhere he could run to, not while he was on this ship…

It was understandable that he couldn't pay attention to where he was going, and so didn't see Francoise until after he all but slammed into her.

"Oh!" she cried out, instinctively catching herself with a hand against the wall.

"Ah, s-sorry, I didn't…" he blurted, reflexively, staggering back from the impact and staring in horror at the female cyborg.

"No, it's okay…"

There was nothing but sympathy in Francoise's pale aquamarine eyes as she gazed at him, regaining her balance without a second thought. Britain quickly dropped his stare to the much safer target of her arm, studying the way her slender fingers splayed rested against the doorframe of the room she'd just entered from.

He'd caught in the middle of something, moving from one task to another. Francoise worked very hard to help keep matters on the Dolphin running as smoothly as possible… and he he'd gone and interrupted her, almost knocked her down.

"Sorry, I…"

__

-- Remembered his nightmare very vividly, for it was real enough, so much he could swear he felt the girl's skull fracturing beneath his fingers, all her enhancements completely useless and crumbling under his tightening grasp --

Shaking his head suddenly, Britain mumbled an unintelligible apology and darted around her, careful not to brush up against the startled lass as he squeezed past. He heard Francoise start to cry out, some weak attempt to make him stay and talk to her, but ignored it, knowing it would only lead to more troubles.

He couldn't talk to anyone about it. It was his fault, anyway, for letting the virus control him. All his fault…

Slowing down in the safety of another uninhabited hall, Britain folded his trembling arms against his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.

Yes; he deserved to feel this cold, somehow; he deserved to be constantly reminded of what he'd done. The others suffered at these hands, his hands, and while he hadn't wanted to hurt them, that didn't mean it wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for him.

It was selfish to wish the cold would go away, even for a little while…

~ * ~

"Sir! Sir!" A trembling techie stumbled into the laboratory brandishing a printout, quailing when his master's yellow gaze immediately fell upon him. "A report just came in; they've found the rebels' ship!"

The scientists who hadn't yet paused in their work at the technician's entry froze, all eyes coming to rest on the dark-garbed figure of their commander as he turned fully away from the monitoring chamber. Black Ghost's mask was set in a permanent death's head grin, but the deep-throated chuckle that boomed from his throat made his reaction all too clear.

"At last," he almost purred.

With a flourish of his cape he turned to address the room at large, his voice carrying clearly and reverberating off the laboratory's walls.

"We begin at once! Prepare the cyborg for release! It's high time those traitors met my newest creation…!"

There were no protests, though few of the scientists were thrilled with the idea of sending their precious project out without a few more tests, a couple more last-minute checks. Black Ghost had handed down the order, and they obeyed without question, knowing it was their necks if they disobeyed… or if their perfect assassin failed its mission because of some oversight on their parts.

All they could do was hope, pray, and prepare to send their creation into action.


	4. Trepidation

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The disclaimers can be found in the first chapter; just hit your back button if you need to review those.

~ * Trepidation * ~

There is a fine line between fortune and misfortune, and the soldier knew his current assignment forced him to walk that boundary.

In many ways, his task was simple compared those most involved with this project needed to perform. He needed only get close enough to the renegade craft to ensure his passenger would be able to slip on board safely. He wasn't even required to engage the rebels: in fact, Black Ghost had advised exactly the opposite. It was too great a risk, not because his single stealth unit was woefully inadequate for such a task, but because it would put the cyborgs on high alert if they realized how close their forces were.

Just getting within range of the Dolphin was dangerous, thanks to the intelligence-gathering cyborg undoubtedly on board the vessel. If she detected their presence, the plan was history.

The grunt frowned, turning this point over in his head. Something didn't quite add up: if 003 could possibly pick up his tiny little cruiser's approach, then what would keep her from sensing the assassin he'd been sent to drop off?

Unfortunately, such information was on a need-to-know basis, and since he was only a lowly fighter, the higher-ups judged he didn't need to know. Black Ghost trusted him to handle the guns and destructive technological toys they handed down to their soldiers, but more sensitive intelligence was generally kept away from them.

From what he understood, this was partly the fault of another of the rebel cyborgs, a telepath who could allegedly pick information right out of his victims' heads. Their ignorance was a sort of failsafe, almost damage control in a sense. If the 00-numbers happened to ruin a mission, the potential of other plans being compromised thanks to some vital intelligence gleaned from some grunt's thoughts was much lower.

Thanks to this decision, he knew little about his cargo other than the fact that it was another cyborg, intended to assassinate or otherwise incapacitate the renegade prototypes.

Even the threat of Black Ghost's wrath, however, couldn't fully stem the trickle of rumors running through the lower ranks. The shadows were not completely isolated, and while things such as 'real-life' identities were closely guarded, there were always whispers of what sort of projects were being developed.

According to certain murmurs traded among his fellows, the latest assassin was based around the same transformation technology as one of the runaway prototypes. A recent broadcast to several bases had shown how this talent could be applied towards annihilating one's opponents, and while the demonstration ended without concrete evidence of any rebels being exterminated, the footage was still… enlightening, all the same.

He wasn't even allowed to see his passenger. The cyborg rode in the back, in the cargo hatch that took up the rear half of the ship. Once he judged he had gotten close enough to the Dolphin, he'd unseal the portal and trust the assassin to disembark.

So simple, yet he continued to stress over his task. If he screwed up somehow and the rebels detected him, or, more importantly, his cargo, the entire plan would be ruined, and his life forfeit.

Finally, the stress was too much for him to handle, and with a muttered curse he slammed his fist down on the button controlling the rear latch.

Immediately machinery began to grind in a low whine, and in the shadows of the darkened hold the shapeshifter looked up toward the opening doorway. Already water was flooding into the sealed chamber, displacing the air.

The assassin was hardly alarmed, however, and as the liquid engulfed the black-clad figure swiftly changed into the form already chosen well in advance for this stage of the plan. By the time the chamber was completely flooded, a sleek black and gray dolphin slid out into the dark sea and set off for its destination.

Back in the front of the ship, the soldier waited a few minutes longer before punching in the sequence that would reseal the hatch and drain the hold. He trusted that he'd given the assassin more than enough time to exit, and it was high time he headed back to base. Hopefully if all went well, this was the closest he'd have to come to tangling with the rebel cyborgs… or dealing with any other special projects.

~ * ~

Francoise had been battling feelings of uneasiness all day, and her sense that something was amiss only heightened with each passing hour.

Life on board the Dolphin had fallen into a dreary pattern over the past several days, and the tired routine was wearing down rapidly on its crew. It definitely didn't help that there were so many changes to their typical pattern, changes she doubted anybody really wanted to become accustomed to.

Her encounter with Britain earlier, running into him by chance in the hallway, had been the most contact she'd had with the former actor over the past few days.

Though Francoise hated to consider it, it was clear that the Englishman was learning very quickly how to stay out of everyone's way. Doctor Gilmore was conducting daily tests in order to monitor Britain's condition, but that was really the only time when Francoise knew exactly where he was.

The rest of the time, Britain was careful to avoid crossing paths with any of the others whenever possible. The Dolphin was a large craft, originally intended for more insidious purposes than providing a group of renegades with a mobile shelter-slash-base of operations. It could have supported a considerably larger crew than it had, and if he wasn't sticking to a single room to seclude himself in, it was little wonder the others saw him so rarely anymore.

Britain had even stopped frequenting the group meals, something Francoise found even more alarming after becoming used to Chang and G.B. bickering about practically every topic relating to food and then some. Now whenever she stopped by the kitchen to check on things she tended to find a much quieter scene.

Chang was pretending he didn't notice his friend's absence. Against her better judgement Francoise had tried to broach the issue once, only to be assured by the fire-breathing chef that he had no problems whatsoever, that he actually preferred working in peace, without any pesky interference from bossy know-it-alls who wouldn't know fine dining if they got knocked by a wok.

Chang was a great cook, but a lousy actor.

It wasn't just Britain who was missing meals, either. Lately Jet had taken to grabbing a snack or two between sessions of slinking around the ship glaring at everyone and venting his frustrations either vocally or physically. The aerial combat specialist absolutely hated spending more time underwater on the Dolphin than was necessary in his eyes, and made certain to let everyone know it.

At least she knew the hot-tempered fighter was eating, even if it was mostly junk food, sandwiches and leftovers. They had a lot of the former nowadays, since Chang kept fixing meals for everyone on board despite the fact not everyone showed up at the table anymore.

But Francoise saw Britain so infrequently anymore that she wasn't really certain how much nutrition he was getting.

He had to be eating sometime, she decided, even if she couldn't confirm when or what. Surely his condition hadn't deteriorated so far that he was forgetting to eat at all -- that couldn't escape everyone's notice! After all, he still saw Doctor Gilmore regularly; the scientist would definitely pick up on any major changes in his health and know something was going on!

Fingertips straying upward to lace through her bangs and press lightly against her forehead, Francoise sighed. There was too much to worry about, and this headache wasn't helping matters any.

Ivan was still sleeping, but that didn't keep the female cyborg from checking in on him constantly, worried her sense of foreboding wasn't because of something wrong with the infant. Gilmore assured her there was nothing to be afraid of: he'd already checked to make certain the baby's efforts hadn't harmed him in any manner, and other than his complete exhaustion, Ivan appeared to be perfectly fine.

That didn't stop Francoise from heading toward the infant's bedroom even at that minute, sliding the doorway open again to sneak another peek in on the sleeping child.

She was only slightly surprised to see that the room had another occupant. Geronimo Junior's wide-shouldered figure balanced on a chair pulled up close to Ivan's bassinet. Though his attention had been focused entirely on the tiny figure curled up in the fluffy white sheets, by the time Francoise eased the door open enough to spy him there his dark eyes were already fixed upon her.

"Oh…" she faltered.

The giant laid a finger gently against his lips in the well-known sign for silence, rising to his feet and crossing the room without making any undue noise. Francoise stepped back from the door in order to allow him to step past her, then stole one final look at the bassinet before sliding the portal shut.

"He is doing well," Geronimo informed her quietly, his naturally deep and unobtrusive voice even more hushed than usual. "Have patience."

"I know…" and Francoise finally turned her aquamarine eyes from the closed doorway, her gaze coasting past the towering strongman and over the wall beyond. "It's just that…"

"You are worried, much as we all are." Geronimo looked solidly at the blonde woman. "But there are matters beyond our control. He has the most say in how long it will take him to recover."

"Yes, but…" her roaming gaze finally found a target in the floor at her feet. "Between Ivan and what happened to G…"

"I was referring to him as well."

That caused Francoise to finally look up and meet Geronimo's steady gaze. While the Native American towered over the slender blonde lady, there was nothing truly imposing about the gentle expression gracing his stoic face.

"It is difficult to see our friends like this," he stated, his voice maintaining its usual deep, even tone. "It's hard to acknowledge that one of our friends is suffering and there is little we can do to assist them. We can offer our support, but we cannot force them to accept it, and there is much beyond our control in this situation."

"…Yes…" Francoise closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head and reopened them halfway. "But… still, I wish we…"

"I know. We all feel it, to some degree, whether we want to or not. We may do everything in our power, but as long as he is hurting inside, our hearts will insist that we can somehow accomplish more."

Geronimo shook his head slowly, briefly showing just how deeply his current inability to resolve all their problems cut him.

"007 must come to terms with what happened on his own. No amount of pushing on our part can really force him to find his resolution. He is the only one who truly knows what he went through, and the only one who is able to work out a way to deal with whatever changes it has brought."

"But… what about us? What can we…"

"We continue as we have been: allow him to see that we are still his friends and teammates despite what happened. That has not changed, even if G.B. has while trying to adjust to the situation. He is still one of us, though he may not believe it right now. We must show him that is not the case."

Francoise studied Geronimo's face for a bit longer, then dropped her gaze back to the ground and nodded her silent agreement. But even though she understood and accepted her teammate's wisdom, it didn't ease the sense of disquiet and unease festering deep inside the sensitive young woman. Something was still awry, and the knowledge that she was incapable of finding a solution herself did little to soothe her.

~ * ~

The assassin had come well prepared.

Since the Dolphin was technically stolen Black Ghost property, Mimic was easily provided with full blueprints of the vessel, briefed on its layout and capabilities. While this wouldn't account for any modifications that the rebels might have made, it seemed unlikely such things went beyond the decorative.

The important thing was that Mimic understood how to board the craft.

Unerringly the sleek black dolphin swam toward its destination, taking care to follow in the ship's wake. As it closed the distance between them the faux porpoise veered to one side, moving underneath the carrier and towards a certain latch in its side.

Once it reached the hatchway, the former dolphin reached out and grasped a pipeline mounted just in front of it. The pipe served the simple purpose of giving the crew something to hold onto while opening the door from the outside, so that they could board even while the Dolphin was retreating if needed.

It served Mimic's purpose just as well.

Rather than assume his true form for this task, the assassin had opted for a more subtle approach. Mimic couldn't risk one of the rebels happening to idly glance outside and see a stranger at the hatch, so instead he had taken the most logical disguise.

So long as it wasn't Pyunma who happened to take that possible look outside, the rebels would find nothing peculiar about the sight of the dark-skinned aquatic specialist slipping through the door.

It opened quickly enough, allowing the doppelganger to squeeze into the antechamber that kept water from flooding into the Dolphin. Mimic wasted no time in sealing the portal behind him, and circumvented the next barrier between him and his victims just as effortlessly.

Stepping into the much larger room beyond the entrance, 'Pyunma' scanned the empty deck once with cold navy eyes, then turned and melted into the shadows, already dusky skin shifting in tone to match the darkened wall as his back met it.

Caution was required. Mimic knew better than to start slaughtering the renegades wholesale as he encountered each one. While he could probably destroy a couple in that manner, the assassin had been provided with enough information than to make the mistake of underestimating the rebellion.

The shapeshifter was the latest in a line of attempts to deal with the 00-number rebels, after all. If they weren't a real threat to Black Ghost they would have been disposed of long ago.

Mimic flattened further against the wall, body thinning until it was little more than a paper-thin molding of the surface. A casual observer would fail to detect anything different about the wall, and, so long as it kept to the shadows, there was even less chance that the crew would notice even should it happen to move.

The rebels were used to the Dolphin by now, and comfortable enough that they didn't keep on full alert while simply navigating its halls.

It would take concentration to sustain the form, especially if Mimic wanted to ensure that it would remain undetected. But the amount of intelligence it stood to gather while maintaining this front would be more than worth it.

Thanks to the intelligence it was provided with concerning the 00-numbers, the assassin knew the basic extent of each cyborg's powers and appearance. But those stiff reports lacked plenty of data: what were their personalities, their habits, their individual strengths and weaknesses that came from their character?

That sort of knowledge could come in handy, and Mimic saw no need to rush. The cyborgs would fall one way or another, sooner or later… And besides… this promised to be… interesting.

The assignment was to dispatch the rebels. Once they were gone, Mimic doubted there would be future missions more engaging and potentially dangerous than this one. Best to make it last, make it memorable…


	5. Intrusion

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The disclaimers are, for the most part, located in the first chapter; this installment has an additional warning of sorts. I apologize in advance for the blatant 004 fangirling below; believe me, you'll probably understand what I'm referring to when you read it…

~ * Intrusion * ~

Underwater, night and day were reduced to vague memories prompted by the internal clocks of the Dolphin's crew. It did make it easier for them to work in shifts; while the Dolphin did possess a sort of auto-pilot feature, nobody particularly wanted to leave the deck unmanned while they were out in the middle of the ocean. Especially when Black Ghost was undoubtedly having his forces scour the seas in search of them.

Much to Joe's disappointment, his recent injuries caused Doctor Gilmore to judge that he was better served resting and recuperating than by taking any of the later shifts. While he wasn't the only crew member forced to follow this decision -- and, certainly, it was nice to have a firm schedule for once instead of taking things as they came -- he felt more than a little guilty about being unable to serve his fair share.

Taking Albert, G.B. and himself off active duty meant their crew was cut by a third. Nobody really begrudged them their sudden lack of responsibility (although Joe was pretty certain Jet had a few things to say on the matter that couldn't be aired in polite company), but for the youthful leader the forced inactivity was a source of frustration.

Wasn't there anything he could do to help…?

Running his tongue across the inside of his teeth, Joe hesitated momentarily and stole a quick glance around the hallway. Nobody was around, though he thought he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye at one point. But when he looked more closely, there was still no sign that anyone other than him was in the corridor.

Satisfied, Joe nodded to himself, then clicked his teeth together sharply.

In the space between breaths, the brown-haired boy vanished from where he stood and reappeared past the end of that hallway and around the corner, directly in front of his current bedroom's door.

When he emerged from his acceleration mode, Joe half-stumbled, and immediately slapped both hands over his right knee as he barely avoided falling into a crouch.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, garnet-stone eyes narrowing slightly in self-directed anger.

(Took that turn too sharply… nearly kicked the wall… what's with me lately?)

Joe wasn't really eager to find out what would happen if he struck an immovable object while accelerating. If Gilmore or anyone else found out he'd miscalculated while taking that turn and nearly clipped the corner… Well, he'd be in for a lecture, that was certain.

Straightening up, Joe took a deep breath to calm himself before opening the door. He was careful not to make too much noise; after all, he currently had a couple of roommates to consider, and if either one stayed true to the pattern that seemed to be developing lately…

Just as he suspected, the room was already occupied. The bed closest to the wall and farthest from the door was dominated by a curled lump of tightly pulled white sheets; the slope of its occupant's hidden back pointed in his direction. There wasn't any sound emanating from that mass of covers, however, and Joe took a reluctant half-step toward it, lips parting slightly to direct a question to his roommate.

"Leave him alone, Joe."

Joe turned to face Albert as the walking arsenal emerged from another door. The German didn't look in the direction of either of his companions as he crossed to his own bed, gunmetal fingers loosening the knot at the back of his neck. The bright golden scarf slipped free and settled over his shoulders, and Albert wound the length of fabric in his hands with a practiced ease.

"In case you haven't figured it out yet, he really doesn't want to talk to us about anything anymore," he observed, back still turned on Joe even while he addressed him. Unzipping the back of his uniform, he instructed, "Just let him be."

Joe stared at the silver-haired German, a little startled by his cold demeanor. Albert ignored the gaping boy, knowing better than to turn and meet that pleading ruby gaze. Instead he concentrated on changing out of his normal clothes.

From the lump of covers on the bed in the corner, he heard a soft murmur, almost a whimper. He chose not to draw any attention to it.

Britain had already been like this when he arrived. Clearly the Englishman wasn't asleep, but he didn't exactly seem interested in carrying on a conversation, either. Albert had too much respect for his friend's right to privacy to try forcing a confrontation; undoubtedly that would just be painful for all parties involved.

(Still, we'll have to confront what happened sooner or later…) he demurred, pausing with his loosened shirt hanging over his arms, exposing his shoulders and most of his upper arms. Then he shrugged away his hesitation and continued pulling his uniform off, deciding, (It's his choice to make _when_ he's ready, not mine.)

He folded his jacket neatly and laid it to one side, on top of his pleated scarf. His pants followed suit, while his boots leaned up against the side of the cabinet. Albert quickly pulled on a fresh set of pajama boxers, fully aware that somewhere behind him Joe had immediately turned away and was busying himself changing into his own sleepwear. 

Albert tried not to dwell on the fact that his decidedly more robotic chest was still exposed. Time and familiarity had dulled his disgust over his markedly different appearance, yet old wounds run deep and, sometimes, can ache worse than fresher injuries.

It wasn't Joe's fault that the scientists had given him and the other cyborgs smoother, more natural-looking bodies. For 004, incorporating a full arsenal of weapons into his frame took precedence over reconstruction of his beaten old body. And considering how some of the other cyborgs they'd met had been redesigned -- 0011's sad fate sprang readily to mind -- Albert understood now that he could have fared much worse.

All the same…

Coming out of his darker musings with an abrupt shake of his head, Albert finally looked over to check on Joe, and was relieved to see that the brown-haired boy had already changed into his own pajamas and was climbing into bed. Turning back to his own cot, he gave the lad a casual over-the-shoulder wave and a curt, "Goodnight…"

"Good night, Albert, G.B.," Joe replied, nodding both to the German and over toward the supposedly already sleeping Britain.

The lights switched off, plunging the chamber and its three occupants into relative darkness. Albert buried his face in his pillow, gripping the cushion with both arms and willing himself to sleep. Joe, meanwhile, stared up at the shadowed ceiling for several minutes before finally turning onto his side and drifting off into unconsciousness.

Ironically, it was Britain who was the last one to surrender to the siren song of slumber. After hearing his roommates' breathing settle into a steady pattern, the actor shifted his weight to a somewhat more comfortable position and allowed the covers to slip off his face, revealing his tired, yet wide open eyes.

Albert was correct; he definitely didn't want to discuss his living nightmare with anyone else. He took such pains to avoid the others in his waking hours that the last thing he needed was to have all his hard work undone by coming in to be confronted by his roommates.

It certainly didn't help that Joe and Albert were the two that had the most reason out of all his friends to be furious with his unwilling betrayal.

Gilmore had no idea how his decision to have the three most injured cyborgs bunk together was affecting Britain. It wasn't an issue the former shapeshifter was about to breach with the good doctor anytime soon. There was no telling how he would react to the news that Britain couldn't even look at his roommates without remembering how he'd nearly murdered them in his viral state…

Though it hurt to see them, however, a tiny part of Britain accepted their presence and the pain it brought, even welcomed it. After all, he was certain he deserved this sort of reminder that he wasn't a part of the team, not anymore… And how could he even consider trying to put what happened behind him in the face of what he'd done?

Shuddering, Britain pulled the sheets tighter around him and squeezed his eyes shut, weakly hoping that perhaps this time slumber would afford him a temporary shelter from the nightmares that haunted his waking hours. It was a selfish hope, he knew, yet it was the only way he could force himself to sleep.

Soon after his breathing settled into a calmer pattern, following the example set by his roommates, there was a stir of movement outside the room. There was nobody left inside the chamber to take note of this, however, nor did the sleepers stir when the door slid open with a whisper. It closed shortly thereafter, cutting off the dim light from the hallway outside.

The darkness suited Mimic perfectly. The assassin leaned against the inside of the doorframe while waiting for its eyesight to adjust, using the brief period to consider what sort of form might best suit its purposes.

The security on board the Dolphin seemed strangely lacking to the shapeshifter. Was the relatively small amount of resistance that Mimic had met so far due to a negligence on the part of the crew, a severe underestimation of Black Ghost's resources? Or was it more due to the assassin's skill with stealth? Certainly they did not appear to be well equipped to handle the possibility of a shapeshifting spy, despite the fact that one of their number had the same sort of abilities…

Now, here were three members of the rebellion, caught completely off guard and helpless. Mimic could slaughter them all in their sleep, dealing the renegades a crippling blow…

Tempting as that was, Mimic could also see the risks of such a move. There were three cyborgs in the room, compared to the lone assassin… not the best of odds even taking their current state into account. Certainly, Mimic could murder one of them quickly, but which one to choose? Especially since the potential noise would probably wake the other two, and while it had the advantage of surprise, there was no real interest in sparking a direct confrontation so soon.

Even if it managed to dispatch all three, the rest of the crew would be alerted to the assassin's presence. Mimic's assignment was to deal with all ten of the rebels one way or another, but not necessarily all at once. That was only inviting disaster.

Reconnaissance, then, seemed a more proper course of action. The trick was to keep the suspicions of the rebels low. From the information Mimic had been provided with beforehand, there were a couple of forms that would not incite too much suspicion in the minds of the cyborgs should any of them happen to wake and spy someone else present.

When Mimic pushed away from the door and stepped into the room proper, therefore, the assassin's already slim figure had taken on the supple curves of the rebellion's only female member.

The false Francoise crossed the chamber quickly to the bed closest to the door, and cold turquoise eyes drank in the reposed features of the brown-haired lad resting before her.

The corners of her mouth twitched slightly: this was the cyborg who'd caused her master such grief in the past? He was barely an adult, his youthful face hardly seeming like that of a hardened, battle-smart leader.

Still, appearances could be deceiving…

Experimentally she laid her hands over his throat, slender fingertips brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of his neck. It would be so easy to ensure 009 would no longer interfere with any of Black Ghost's plans… just one quick flex of her deceptively delicate wrists, or a carefully chosen morph of her hands into something more threatening, and the renegades lose their leader…

(…Not just yet. I have plenty of time to decide a more fitting end for this… brat…)

The frigid aquamarine gaze tracked over to the silver-topped head resting against a fluffy white pillow, and full lips twitched into a deeper sneer. From this angle, the fearsome living arsenal hardly appeared to be a fraction as threatening as the amount of pure destructive power Mimic knew lay within 004. Amazing how something as simple as slumber could hide a cyborg's true nature… if, indeed, the weapons expert was anything close to what his ability dictated his personality should be like.

That accounted for two of the room's occupants: both formidable opponents in their own right, and potential threats to the assassin's well being. What about the third one, the rebel team's own shapeshifter?

Moving to his bedside, the false Francoise noted how all of this cot's sheets were pulled over its occupant, completely obscuring his body. It took a few seconds of close analysis before Mimic judged exactly which way 007 faced. Carefully the assassin peeled back the covers until she had a clear view of her fellow shapeshifter's face.

Mimic frowned. She recognized the face from the data files she had been provided with, and yet… somehow… there was a very different quality about the cyborg lying before her.

Though the former actor joined his comrades in slumber, there was none of the relaxation that had been present in 009's demeanor to be found here. In fact, Britain's face was contorted slightly, his tightly squeezed shut eyes still playing out some private horror that tore at him even while sleeping.

As the assassin watched, intrigue fluttering over her stolen features, Britain whimpered slightly and shifted suddenly, his body quailing away from the onlooker like he sensed her unwelcome presence. Though already ensnared in the cocoon of sheets he'd formed, he curled up a bit tighter, withdrawing further into himself.

__

This was Mimic's counterpart? This fidgety shell of a cyborg so caught up in his own nightmares that he failed to detect the very real danger she posed?

Utterly disgusted, Mimic reached out to seize Britain and force his head back to face her. She simply could not believe this pathetic creature was supposed to be her predecessor… that his existence somehow created her own!

Her hand made contact with his skin -- and the tips of her probing fingers seemed to slide neatly into his cheek, meeting surprisingly little resistance. Instead of the expected sensation of his skin underneath her fingertips, Mimic felt a surge of something else from the other shapeshifter, something that froze the assassin where she stood as a flood of new information overwhelmed her.

Britain flinched, falling still as well. He didn't roll away from her hand, but his face tightened with a fresh wave of agony, one that rooted him to the spot and prevented him from making any sort of attempt to get away.

It was Mimic who finally severed the connection, wrenching her hand free with a sudden movement and falling backwards, landing in a rather ungraceful heap.

The assassin's turquoise eyes were wide with astonishment as she regarded her hand. The fingertips still tingled from the contact they'd made, though they'd resumed the perfect shape she'd originally schooled them into when she chose this form.

They looked normal now, but Mimic was aware that, just seconds before, they hadn't been in the shape she'd chosen. Something had… changed… and…

Freed from her ministrations, Britain shied away from the side of the bed like he'd just been burned and curled up tighter, shuddering violently. The disturbed covers settled over his trembling body, shadowing the look of abject horror his face had contorted into.

Regaining control far more easily than her counterpart, the false Francoise rose to her feet and glared at the shivering Britain.

Now Mimic understood perfectly. No wonder 007 was so pathetic. His gift had been taken away, leaving the cyborg weaker and more useless than even a mere human… worse, because he'd had the power and lost it.

The shapeshifter grimaced, twisting Francoise's pretty features into a grotesque parody of themselves. His inability tainted the connection they'd shared for that brief moment, giving the assassin a clear sensation of what it would feel like to be cut off from the core of her power. The notion repelled Mimic.

Black Ghost had not given the cyborgs such gifts only to have them disabled, rendered useless. Though it made Mimic's job a bit easier to have one of the rebels already out of commission, the fact that it was her counterpart…

The master would have to be informed of this turn of events. Undoubtedly Black Ghost would be able to turn this situation to their advantage…

Casting another glance around the room, Mimic briefly debated with herself before moving over to 004's bed. The weapons specialist was still hugging his pillow to his face, his own sheets slipping off to expose his back. Mimic traced her fingers over the blunt curves of his roughly constructed frame, her right hand soon resting on the jutting edge of his right shoulder.

With a rapid movement, her hand blurred, shifting into a thin blade that plunged into the joint right where two plates met.

The sudden burst of pain caused Albert's back to arch abruptly, but Mimic extracted her hand and collapsed limply to the ground before he had a chance to stifle his cry and snap awake. The German snapped his head up and looked around sharply, but his blurring steel gaze failed to take note of anything amiss. If he did notice the innocuous white sheet crumpled next to his bed, he dismissed it as nothing important, his sleep-fogged mind failing to note that his covers were all draped over his bed.

After his head hit the pillow again, Mimic waited for his breathing to settle back into its previous steady rhythm before reassuming the stolen form of Francoise. The blonde cyborg stood, smirked coldly at the silver-haired German, then turned and headed quietly toward the door.

Just because Mimic didn't want to finish off the cyborgs just yet didn't mean she had no plans to toy with the foolish rebels, after all. The assassin would milk this assignment for all the amusement it had to offer.


	6. Preoccupation

__

As always, the disclaimers can be found in the first chapter.

~ * Preoccupation * ~

"…Let's just get this over with."

Gilmore shot his patient a startled glance over the counter and tray resting between them, but Britain expected it and avoided eye contact by focusing on the needle he was inserting into his wrist. Maybe it wasn't the best time to say anything, considering how he'd fallen into the habit of speaking as little as possible when with the scientist or anyone else, but he pretended not to notice his momentary slip.

The all-too-familiar beep of the monitor started up, and Britain tuned out the steady rhythm while his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Last night had been rougher than even what was now usual for the former shapeshifter.

Vividly he recalled it -- an explosion of white-hot sensation slicing through the blanket of cold detachment from reality that dominated his dreams. Though it was a change from the numbness he was growing accustomed to, it was hardly welcome -- if anything the sudden contact was painful, a blast of paralyzing venom spreading through his veins like wildfire and holding him fast.

It hurt… _burned_ more than anything he'd felt before.

Even after the phantom touch faded, the feeling of being trapped remained. Despite being aware this had to be a nightmare, Britain found he couldn't rouse himself from it, instead spending the night fearing its return. It was like he'd been hopelessly ensnared in a spider's web and, after being bitten once and immobilized, was waiting for the spider to return and finish its work… a reprieve that never came.

What was worse…the cold lack of feeling that dominated his waking hours, or the promise of that caustic caress that threatened to swallow what remained of him whole?

"…ro-seven?"

With a blink Britain came back to reality, refocusing on the concerned face of his caretaker gazing over at him. Startled by the realization that he'd become so caught up in the memory of his nightmare that he'd tuned out reality, his guard slipped further and he made the mistake of making eye contact with Gilmore. Immediately catching his mistake, Britain snapped his face away and stared steadily at the floor.

His correction wasn't fast enough: for a moment the scientist got a clear glimpse of the torment the actor had been trying to keep concealed. Gilmore immediately frowned, his aged, paternal visage darkening as his concerns appeared to be justified.

"Are you feeling alright, 007?" he queried; privately he wished that some less trite phrase would come to mind so that he could more accurately voice his concerns, but, sadly, he never had possessed much of a gift with words.

Glancing downward, he noticed that the needle still jutted from Britain's wrist, continuing to relay its stream of useless information to his computer. Once again, his patient had inserted it himself, but now it had shifted slightly. Gilmore winced and reached down to disentangle it.

"Here, let me help you with…"

Since his attention was focused on the needle, he only barely caught sight of Britain snapping his head up and shooting him a terrified look, the color flooding out of his face when he saw the scientist about to grasp his wrist.

"_No!_"

He yanked his arm back so sharply that he nearly caught Gilmore in the side, the sudden move taking the good doctor completely off guard. It also completely dislodged the instrument, needle and wire clattering against the tray as both fell onto the counter. It lay there, temporarily forgotten, while Gilmore goggled in mute astonishment at his patient.

Britain clasped his other hand over his wrist, holding both almost protectively against his trembling chest while staring steadfastly at the floor …Like he didn't dare return Gilmore's gaze now, for fear of… something he didn't want to explain.

Finally, mumbling some half-discernible apology, the Englishman jumped from his seat and hurried from the infirmary, leaving Gilmore staring thoughtfully after him. The door slid shut automatically after he darted into the hallway, cutting off the hard stare that Britain felt burning into his back.

(Stupid,) he berated himself. (Stupid stupid stupid. Now he definitely knows something's wrong – oh, _like he didn't know before_ -- but I don't need him worrying about me… like he should be worrying about me… after what I…)

His pace slowed to a plod as Britain organized his thoughts. The panic of the moment was fading, replaced by a wave of guilt as he recalled the startled look Gilmore had given him.

__

Great. Now Doctor Gilmore had _another_ reason to wonder about his condition besides the obvious… the one problem he couldn't cover up…

He hadn't meant to scare him. It was just that when he saw the scientist reaching over to grab his hand, to pull the needle out for him, a possible connection between his dreams and reality clicked into place:

…If the illusory touch in his nightmare could burn so horribly…

Britain didn't want to test it. Probably it was cowardly, and probably he deserved to suffer if it turned out to be true, but…

So he'd yanked his arm back instinctively, giving poor Gilmore quite the surprise in the process, and decided to get out of there before any uncomfortable questions could be asked. He definitely didn't want to go into why he'd acted that way with the well-meaning doctor, because whether his theory panned out or not…

…He didn't want to know the answer. He didn't want to know what the scientist would do… how he, or the others, would react…

The more he thought about it, the more Britain convinced himself that it made perfect sense. Of course the virus couldn't have simply disabled his transforming ability and rendered him useless to the team… That wasn't painful enough. But if just touching somebody else could burn so badly, then…

A quick look around told Britain he was in luck, for once: nobody else was in sight. He was free to sink to his knees, lean against the wall, and relieve the pressure building and twisting inside by allowing himself to cry. Still, he bit his lip and tried to muffle the sound, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to himself.

Nobody else needed to know… nobody else needed to pretend sympathy… He didn't want that… he was sure he didn't want it… didn't deserve it…

~ * ~

If there was one drawback to being able to change form at will, it was that it burned up a lot of energy, especially when sustaining one for long periods of time.

Fortunately, there was an easy solution to that problem, and Mimic had not had an especially difficult time finding where the renegades stored their rations. The hardest part was choosing the right moment to slip in and take what it needed without risking notice.

Of course, it helped that Mimic took the form of one of the cyborgs, just in case somebody happened to walk in while he was rummaging through the refrigerator. Since they all dressed in the same uniform, it shouldn't even be a problem if the cyborg he was imitating popped in, so long as they didn't see his face first…

Mimic tossed the apple he had 'borrowed' into the air and caught it easily, combating the urge to whistle cheekily to himself. Nobody would think anything of it if they happened to spot him, and who knew: they might even be reassured by the sight of their young leader in such a cheery mood…

(What ignorant fools,) Mimic mused, lifting the juicy red fruit to his lips.

He opened his mouth to take a bite, then grimaced and tossed his head slightly, trying to flip his bangs out of his face.

(Why does the brat have his hair like _this?_ Doesn't he want to see where he's going? What an annoyance…)

Mimic attempted to bite into his apple again, only to taste the ends of his bangs slipping right back into his mouth the moment he opened it. Rapidly losing patience, he roughly shoved the thick brown locks aside again and held it there, finally sinking his teeth into his prize.

(Ahh… Note to self: give 009 haircut, then kill him…)

Chewing the mouthful of pulp, Mimic perked his head up as the first faint echoes of approaching voices reached his ears. Feigning nonchalance, the doppelganger reclined against the wall and took another bite of his apple, all the while straining to pick up the strains of conversation.

Silently the assassin mouthed a curse against the fruit pressed to his lips: this was a potential problem. Thanks to video feed from spy cameras and the like, Mimic had a good grasp on what each of the rebels sounded like, enough that the assassin was confident he could imitate them if the situation called for it. He didn't hear the brat talking, but there was always the chance he was tagging along with his friends…

Pity he wasn't equipped with 003's super-sensitive hearing; that would have been nice to have at the moment.

His instincts said '_don't risk it; just meld with the wall and wait for them to pass'_. Unfortunately, that also meant he'd have to drop the apple. He doubted even these unwary fools would fail to notice a suspicious lump in the wall, and he couldn't flatten the fruit along with his body…

The voices were drawing nearer: so far Mimic had identified only two voices, neither of which belonged to 009. Though there was always the chance he'd somehow missed him…

Mimic bowed his head and bit another chunk off his apple. Surreptitiously, he slid his body so that he was pressed a little closer to the wall, glaring through his bangs in the direction the voices were approaching from. Inwardly he braced: if 009 did round that corner, he'd have to shift immediately into someone else before they noticed his presence.

(…003's probably the best bet. Her body type and hairstyle's close enough to his that the change shouldn't attract attention…)

The speakers were almost upon him, their voices coming from just around the corner. Mimic chewed quietly on his snack and waited, ready to change at a moment's notice.

"…getting really sick of it! How long's G.B. planning on dragging out this pity party of his?!"

Jet emphasized his query with a huff, bringing down his foot a little harder as he rounded the corner and continued storming down the hall. The irritated redhead didn't even acknowledge 'Joe's' presence, too caught up in his rant to his companion to notice the brown-haired cyborg leaning against the wall.

"I mean, it's been almost two weeks!" he threw his hands up in the air for a moment before letting them swing back at his sides. "I haven't even seen him around all that much; he's always sulking around somewhere anymore. When's it going to sink it that it's just Black Ghost's fault, damnit?!"

"We have to be patient," instructed Pyunma, keeping an even stride alongside his fuming partner. The aquatic specialist remained calm and collected, making Jet seem all the more tempestuous in comparison. "We can't rush things…"

"I can't stand it! What's it going to take for him to _get_ it?! We're not mad at _him_ or…"

"Really?" Pyunma glanced sideways at Jet and raised an eyebrow. "You sound pretty mad right now."

"That's _different_, damnit--!"

As Jet's voice rose with poorly restrained anger, the pair continued down the hall and farther away from where Mimic stood. The assassin made no move to follow; instead he watched them with narrowed ruby eyes, slowly eating his snack while turning over their conversation in his head.

…So they weren't taking the disablement of one of their number very well. Understandable. What good is a cyborg soldier who cannot fight…?

As he expected, Black Ghost had found his earlier report of conditions on board the Dolphin most enlightening. Already his commander had issued new orders concerning his plans for the rebels, courtesy of the communications link built into the shapeshifter's uniform. It piped instructions directly into Mimic's ear, a method even the hypersensitive 003 couldn't yet detect.

By now his nibbling had reduced his apple to a gnawed-up core. Idly Mimic turned it over in his hand and tightened his fingers around it until juice and pulp began to ooze over his clenched fist.

In truth -- though he knew better than to question his leader publicly -- Mimic found this latest addendum to his assignment curious. Why did Black Ghost issue such a command? It hardly seemed worth the time and effort it would take.

True, Mimic had no desire to rush the job, but that was because it seemed unlikely he would receive such a challenging assignment after these renegades were dealt with. Not to mention the fact that so many had failed before that it seemed idiotic to underestimate them…

…And yet, Black Ghost's newest orders appeared to be, in essence, doing just that.

(Why? What is he thinking…?)

Mimic shook his head in disgust, paying little heed to the sticky mess dripping from his balled-up palm.

It was not his place to question the master's plans. Clearly Black Ghost was going to turn events to his advantage, showing just how much control he possessed over matters. Mimic just didn't understand yet how things pieced together.

Why would anyone so useless…?

Gritting his teeth, brushing his sticky hands together absently, Mimic turned back to exit the room. Perhaps gathering more intelligence on these rebels would give him more insight on his leader's reasoning. He had specific orders to follow, but would have to wait for an opportunity to present itself before he could act…

(…Or create an opportunity…)

Turning this over in his head, Mimic pushed the door open and stepped outside, hesitating only long enough to wipe off the sticky handprint left behind with the sleeve of his uniform. He certainly would not be caught underestimating the renegades, regardless of his commander's apparent inclination to do the same…


	7. Delusion

__

The disclaimers are located back in the first chapter. Okay, so the last few chapters have been kind of slow, I admit, but it was setting up for a lot of important events later on. And, of course, a lot happens here, too…

~ * Delusion * ~

The day simultaneously dragged on and fled too quickly for Britain; his self-imposed isolation made it difficult for him to judge the passing of time with a great deal of accuracy. For someone who was used to whiling the hours away entertaining his friends, the stretches of silence became longer every day. Yet, at the same time, he was adapting to the new schedule, becoming more accustomed to the art of avoiding human contact.

His sense of time blurred further as his body attempted to adjust to the changes in routine. Some adjustments turned out to be much easier than others were.

Britain was mildly surprised to find out he didn't feel as hungry as he once had, though he wasn't eating as much as he once had. Since he no longer ate with the rest of the crew, he usually sneaked something from the kitchen whenever his body absolutely demanded some form of nourishment.

He didn't like risking it, however, because of the high chance of running into Chang there.

Chang would've thrown a fit if he'd known what his former friend was doing. One good look at the actor's haggard, pale complexion, and he'd undoubtedly figure out exactly what was going on. The chef would likely go ballistic, exploding into a heated tirade about how important a balanced diet was to maintaining one's health, how vital it was to ensure you had good nutrition and take care of yourself…

(…it doesn't matter anymore.)

More than anything, Britain felt tired. He wasn't sure why he felt so exhausted when he really wasn't accomplishing anything other than hiding from the rest of the team. Maybe it was just due to his difficulty sleeping.

His last nightmare still festered in the back of his mind; Britain shuddered at the memory of that illusory caress and absently touched his cheek. It had seemed so real…

…But, there was still more comfort in the thought of rest than could be found here. Great Britain had enough nightmares to deal with while awake, enough that he was willing to risk returning to that illusion than a confrontation with any of the other cyborgs.

Britain trudged back to the room he shared with Albert and Joe, taking his time to ensure nobody saw him along the way. Thankfully, he somehow managed to reach his destination without much difficulty; experience taught him which hallways tended to get the most traffic, and he was able to avoid running into anyone else.

To his relief, his luck seemed to be holding up nicely, for he opened the door to find neither of his roommates waiting inside. Britain hadn't expected them to be there; both had their own daily sessions with Doctor Gilmore to monitor their progress, and neither felt inclined to avoid the others the way he needed to.

Too exhausted to bother changing out of his clothes, not even bothering to switch the lights on, Britain flopped down on his bed in a decidedly undignified matter. Rolling onto his back, he studied the ceiling for a while, trying to organize his thoughts.

(…Has it really only been about two weeks since… God, it feels like it's been so much longer than that…)

(I…really don't belong here anymore, do I? It's not like they really need me around… I can't do anything to help, and…)

(…Why… am I even staying here…?)

He took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly, closing his eyes and turning onto his side, pulling the thin sheets over his shoulder.

(…I should just leave. I'm not doing any good here, and…)

(But…)

(I don't… want to go…)

Britain reopened his eyes slightly; from where he lay the Englishman had a clear view of Joe and Albert's empty cots. Albert's bed had been neatly remade, the sheets pulled tight and tucked into place; by contrast, Joe's looked like he'd only taken a few seconds to shove everything into some semblance of order. It seemed kind of strange to him, somehow, that the fastest one of their number didn't always take the time to straighten up.

For a moment, Britain actually smiled, picturing his roommates hustling about that morning before heading out the door. But the happy expression faded quickly as that image was overlaid by the memory of both lying injured at his feet, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably, pulling his covers tighter over his slightly trembling body.

(I don't want to leave… but… what I did to them… I can't ask them to forgive…)

His own circular thought patterns caused Britain's head to start throbbing, and he made a valiant effort to push the issue out of mind and focus on getting the sleep he so desperately needed. Better not to think about it -- what sort of solution could he come up with, anyway?

(…That's part of the problem,) he reflected dismally, adjusting his covers in an attempt to get as comfortable as possible. (Maybe I don't want to know the answer…)

Gradually his breathing settled into a slow, steady rhythm. His last conscious thought before his exhaustion won out was the dim hope that, this time, there would be no dreams, just simple, harmless oblivion.

It was quite some time before anything else in the room stirred.

The door slid open nearly soundlessly, admitting a single figure into the darkened chamber. The portal sealed itself behind him, without any impetus from the silent cyborg. In the dim lighting, his short hair glimmered silver, a fair match for the shimmer of steely blue eyes.

He didn't reach over to flip the lights on. Mimic found the darkness very convenient.

His spying had thus far already yielded a wealth of information that the files the assassin had been given before this mission lacked. True, it was mostly details concerning the cyborgs' personalities and activities, but there was no judging how pertinent it might yet turn out to be.

For example, Mimic already had a rough idea on how to proceed based on what he had been able to gather concerning the current situation on board the Dolphin. In a way, he was almost disappointed; there was less challenge than he had hoped, for it seemed a great deal of the work had already been accomplished -- unintentionally -- for him.

Still, his disappointment wasn't about to keep him from capitalizing on that advantage.

Crossing the room quickly, careful adjustments enabling him to practically glide across the floor without making a sound, the silver-haired shapeshifter soon stood over his weaker counterpart. Pale steel eyes narrowed with unconfined loathing; again Mimic wondered at how it was possible for someone like himself to be related in any small fashion to such a worthless excuse for a cyborg.

(Useless… absolutely… worthless…)

He brushed the bulky metal fingers of his right hand over the sleeping actor's brow; Britain visibly flinched at the fleeting touch. Mimic's already thin grimace tightened into a sneer. His arm shifted so that the tips of his fingers were pointed directly at Britain's forehead.

(Pity I can't actually fire; it would be interesting to see how far he would splatter…)

However, such a temptation would have to go ignored, regardless of the limits of his ability. Mimic had his orders.

His faux-gunhand, though incapable of duplicating his borrowed form's ability, had other uses. Mimic let it drift down to one side, bringing his other hand up to rest just across from it.

Then he brought both down to rest on either side of Britain's face, his fingers digging into the skin.

Once again, his hands seemed to meet little resistance, and the same sensory overload surged into the assassin's system. He felt Britain stiffen at his touch, face twisting with agony, and a feral sneer contorted Mimic's stolen features in response.

He could feel it -- that sense of connection and yet disconnection at the same moment -- the feeling of being cut off from his own powers, a core part of his being blocked away. Just the concept was torturous for Mimic to consider -- yet he refused to let go, aware that whatever suffering he felt from the blockade was certainly worse for its host.

His lips curled back in derision, steely eyes glowing with hatred. Yes; he _wanted_ this pathetic excuse for a cyborg to suffer; the mere concept of his wretched existence wasn't nearly horrible enough. This -- _mockery_ -- of everything Mimic was and could become -- didn't deserve to live.

…No… death was too good for this pathetic creature. 007 needed to _suffer_… and Mimic was determined to ensure he felt all the agony and pain something as useless as a broken cyborg deserved to feel for every moment of their worthless life.

"Inferior piece of junk," he snarled, in a voice almost too filled with hatred to be recognizable as belonging to 004. His form rippled and stretched, the muscles of his back thinning out into billowing extensions that almost looked like wings. "You shouldn't even be allowed to exist…"

~ * ~

…The spider was back.

Britain whimpered as his subconscious wove a vivid tapestry from his hallucinations, spurred on by the increasing blurring of the lines between reality and illusion. Though a tiny part of his mind struggled to hang onto the notion that this was nothing more than feverish imaginations, a single brush across his face that seemed too real to be insubstantial was enough to shatter his grasp on that conviction.

In his frightened, chaotic mind, it all seemed real enough, a plausible extension of the nightmare he was already ensnared in real life.

The web was real, just as genuine as the touch that already spread a terrible heat over his face, like the rush of some monstrosity's breath. In his fear Britain fancied he could almost smell the rancid odor, and he weakly attempted to turn his head away, squeezing his eyes shut tighter.

But it was useless; the webbing bound him so tightly he could barely move, trapping his legs and arms so firmly he couldn't hope to budge them. Britain's feeble struggling intensified as he felt the spider's fangs slide into his cheeks, pumping white-hot agony into his body. He jerked convulsively, feeling the poisonous blaze spread into his chest and lungs, choking him, and bit down hard on his lip to contain his scream.

(…It's no use… I can't…)

His body sagged back down as the fight suddenly drained out of Britain. What was the point? He couldn't possibly escape in his condition; even if he hadn't already been trapped, it was only a matter of time before something happened. He couldn't defend himself anymore…

(…Maybe… I should… give up…?)

The burning was still concentrated mostly where the fangs penetrated his skin, but Britain knew it was only a matter of time before it consumed him. And… then…

(………won't it be over…?)

(…Then…)

(…maybe…)

(……it won't be so…)

He let what remained of his breath in a sigh, feeling the first vestiges of calm steal over him as the thought came into being. His body was still burning from the poison entering his veins, but, somehow, the pain didn't seem as horrible anymore, because at least it would be coming to an end soon…

"…I won't let you go that easily."

The low snarl came from directly above him, and Britain's eyes immediately snapped open from shock. It wasn't simply surprise from hearing somebody else's voice; rather, the fact that he recognized it.

Despite the heat continuing to spread through his body, his vision retained enough focus for him to see clearly what towered over him. His pupils shrank immediately, eyes widening, and the urge to scream rose back in his burning, constricted chest.

The arachnid looming above balanced on eight spindly legs: the front two braced on either side of his head close enough that he could glimpse a fringe of hooked black and gold fur covering the towering shafts. What he'd thought were fangs were actually hands, but they dug so deeply into his skin that Britain couldn't judge if they ended in fingers or claws.

What caused a rush of frigid anxiety to wash over him and briefly stem the blazing agony in his veins, however, was the sight of bulbous golden eyes staring down at him from above a leering skeletal grin.

"You are mine, cyborg," the ghastly visage purred, leaning in closer until all his captive could see was his cruel smile. "You will never escape… not even death can save you…"

He clamped down harder, hands pushing farther under his victim's skin, and Britain opened his mouth to scream. But the sound came out muffled, as suddenly the cocoon already binding him down span itself tighter, engulfing him from head to toe.

But his captor's hands remained buried in his skin, slowly pushing deeper as Black Ghost leisurely set about his torture.

Shrieking against the webbing covering his mouth, Britain tried to squirm free, but his thrashing did nothing to disturb his bindings. Black Ghost's poisonous embrace threatened to tear him apart from inside, but now he held no illusions about the pain ever ending. It would never stop…

~ * ~

Francoise clawed at her ears as she stumbled after the others, though she knew Albert and Joe had already outpaced her. The closer she got to the source, the worse her headache intensified, but even though she knew they would do their best to put a stop to it, she had to at least try and do something herself…

It was strange how a cry could sound so muffled and yet so strong at the same time. She knew if it didn't stop soon she was likely to go insane -- but how much worse was it for the one _making_ that noise?

It was no big surprise that Joe reached the door first; his fist banged against the portal while his other hand fumbled at the front, raising his voice in a worried shout:

"007! Are you okay?!"

His only answer was the echo of his own knocking, accompanied by another dull, smothered shriek from inside.

Then Albert was beside him, the silver-haired German throwing his shoulder against the door. It buckled open, nearly falling clear of its track, and Joe all but threw it to one side so they could get inside.

For a moment both could only stare, taken aback by the sight of their roommate thrashing and buckling wildly on his bed, completely entangled in his sheets. What stunned Joe the most was how Britain had somehow managed to get entirely wrapped up in the thin white covers; from the way he was twisting about, he thought that there should have been at least some progress in freeing himself. Instead, the sheets seemed to cling all the tighter to him.

"G.B.!"

Albert got to him first, and Joe glimpsed the side of the German's left hand shining as he grabbed at the tossing Britain. The outside of the sheets immediately ripped, and Albert quickly sheathed his knife before the actor's wild thrashing carried his side right into the laser blade.

By then Joe reached him, and between their efforts both managed to uncover Britain. The covers fell forgotten to the floor as they attempted to rouse their friend, Joe trapping the Englishman's hands with his own while Britain clawed at the air.

Britain's shrieking had mercifully ceased by then, dropping to a frightening whimpering. It sounded almost like he was forming words, but too soft and garbled for them to understand.

"G.B., wake up! Come on!" he coaxed.

Albert seized Britain's shoulders and forced him down against the cot. He was still jerking about, but his thrashing lacked energy, all the fight draining out of him now that his bindings were heaped on the ground. Still, his eyes were screwed shut, and he continued to murmur fearfully under his breath.

"Oh, man, G.B.…" whispered Joe.

As the panic of the moment ebbed away, the young leader was getting a clearer view of just what sort of state the former shapeshifter was in. Britain's complexion had drained of nearly all its color, his face haggard and drawn with fear and exhaustion. His dark clothing made his skin seem all the more washed out in comparison. Though he'd finally stopped thrashing, his body continued to tremble, whether from terror or cold Joe couldn't judge.

"Good heavens, what on earth happened in here?!"

Joe turned around to see Doctor Gilmore stumbling into the room; through the open doorway he could see Francoise and Geronimo in the hallway beyond, the former leaning against the latter. All three looked just as worried and concerned as Joe figured he probably did.

"…I don't know yet," he admitted, looking back at the shuddering Britain, garnet eyes filled with turmoil. "He looks like he's in pain, but…"

"…Let's get him out of here," Albert said at length, raising his carefully impassive glassy gaze to meet Gilmore's. "Obviously we need to find out more about what's going on…"

"……" The scientist nodded at length, already serious eyes darkening with concern.

Albert lifted Britain off the cot; the actor's trembling abruptly ceased when his weight settled into the German's arms. Kicking off the sheets that had settled around his legs, Albert carried him out of the infirmary with Joe's assistance, the brown-haired lad staying close to his side and regarding the unconscious actor worriedly.

Joe hesitated at the doorway, letting the others go ahead of him to the infirmary while he looked back into the room. His gaze rested briefly on the pile of discarded sheets, then he shook his head and followed after the others, sliding the door shut behind him.

As soon as the portal sealed itself, the covers quivered and lurched upright, the stark white fabric shooting through with color and arranging themselves into stolen features. Mimic hissed, clapping both arms tightly over his side, cold steel eyes reflecting pure rage.

(_Damn_ 004!) he thought furiously, feeling his wounded side.

He'd barely been able to maintain the concentration required to stay in his disguise after that rough treatment. Only the fact that he knew his mission and life would be forfeit if he dropped it enabled him to muster the strength needed to keep his borrowed form.

Even now, after abandoning it for a safer, more human form, his side still felt like it'd been ripped open. It would hold well enough, but all the same, to be injured before he'd even revealed himself…!

(He'll regret that! Damn…)

Mimic lurched to his feet, schooling his thoughts together as the pain slowly receded. It wouldn't do to tip his hand now. He'd done enough for now; he could recuperate while waiting for the rebels to fulfill the next part of his plan for him.

Fantasizing about what awaited 004 after he completed his master's latest orders, Mimic began shifting into a new form, ready to leave now that he'd accomplished what he'd intended here for the moment.


	8. Abdication

__

You probably know the drill by now: disclaimers are in the first chapter, easily accessed by hitting the 'back' button.

~ * Abdication * ~

The steady, hushed thrum of monitoring equipment filled the small chamber with a constant, yet subdued, background noise. Even so, it was still possible to hear Doctor Gilmore's heavy sigh as he looked over the data gathering and displaying in neat little rows on the monitor in front of him. The scientist shook his head slowly, disbelief etched in his deeply creased face as he raised tired eyes to regard his companions.

"According to this, there isn't anything particularly out of the ordinary," he informed them, a tad reluctantly and with more than a little frustration affecting his tone. "Aside from the fact that he still cannot transform, there appears to be nothing physically wrong with him…"

"Other than the fact that he's been acting completely different than normal and avoiding everyone," Albert finished for him.

Gilmore nodded in agreement, then sighed and absently rubbed his brow with two fingers as his attention returned to his patient. Britain was laid out on a cot in front of him, apparently fast asleep: the former shapeshifter hadn't stirred since being brought inside. Several wires were attached to his right wrist, gathering data that so far had proved absolutely worthless in determining what exactly had happened.

Very little about the situation made sense. From what Gilmore could figure out, Britain apparently had a nightmare vivid enough to get him screaming in real life, thrashing so violently around that he'd managed to get completely ensnared in his covers. From the way he'd been shrieking when they came running to check on him, the scientist had thought the poor man was in his death throes.

They were still here; Albert, Joe, Francoise and Geronimo had all decided to stay and wait for G.B. to regain consciousness. The four had pulled some chairs into the room and were seated together, watching over their comrade with varying amounts of attention and discomfort.

Francoise appeared the most dismayed, her aquamarine gaze shifted from place to place, settling most often on the floor. She was the one who first alerted everyone about the development, reeling from screams that at first only she heard. Probably that explained why her expression remained haunted, her pretty face filled with worry and guilt.

While Gilmore watched, Joe surreptitiously reached over and cupped his hand over the blonde cyborg's folded hands, briefly clenching his palm over hers before quickly withdrawing it back to his side. The elderly scientist noted this without comment. Drawing attention to this might have momentarily eased the tension in the room, but that would be unfair to both of the youngsters, and would hardly warrant the distraction.

Albert and Geronimo, meanwhile, were both quite good at maintaining a collected front, much better than their younger companions. The German's face was impassive, his mouth set into a thin line, steely blue eyes holding little to suggest what he was thinking. As for Geronimo, from his closed eyes and crossed arms Gilmore almost got the impression that the giant was mediating.

There was no need to call the rest of their number in. It wasn't as if Gilmore had anything new or important to tell them: he still hadn't made any sort of breakthroughs in understanding what was going on. In truth, he felt more lost and frustrated than ever.

(I can't fix something I can't even find.)

Only one option was left to him, if he could even call it that: waiting to see what information he might be able to coerce out of Britain himself. Still, Gilmore couldn't shake the feeling that tactic was a lost cause.

But there was no other recourse. They simply had to get Britain to talk to them, otherwise…

Sighing, settling back in his seat, solemn gaze locked on the computer screen, Gilmore prepared to wait for as long as necessary.

~ * ~

Great Britain was alone again; the arachnid incarnation of Black Ghost having vanished with the sudden dissipation of pain. The cocoon he'd been so hopelessly enmeshed in was also missing, but despite its absence the darkness remained unchanging. Logically, once it was gone he should have been able to rise and move around normally, yet he remained suspended in the formless void, cut off from the rest of the world as if the webs were still holding him down.

It wasn't anything so terrible as that, however. Britain was aware now that this was only a dream.

Oh, the pain was real enough, but now that the spider had fled and left its prey behind he was free to awaken and return to reality.

He simply refused to.

What was the point? Now that his tormentor had departed Britain found his current location a much nicer place to be. Certainly his surroundings -- or lack thereof -- were pretty dismal: a black fog settled over what passed for his vision, and there was nothing to do even if he had the capacity to move.

But… all the same…

Unbidden fragments of memory flitted across the misty stage of his mind's eye: glimpses of his teammates and allies. Britain struggled to recollect more joyful times -- memories not merely of rare moments of peace, but even those of their battles together, standing against the horrors thrown their way.

Terrible as those battles were, even when it seemed the entire world was pitted against the survival of their little band of rebels, somehow, somehow they always managed to pull through. Granted, maybe it was by the skin of their teeth, and occasionally it seemed nothing short of miraculous that they managed to come through without losing everything, but… time and again they prevailed.

__

They were a team. That was the reason at the heart of it all. They could weather whatever Black Ghost and all his minions threw at them, because they always stood together…

But no matter how many times Britain reminded himself of this, the words sounded hollow, emptier than the void swallowing his senses and cutting him off from the rest of the world.

(They're a team,) he thought forlornly to himself, adding, (But I don't really have a place with them anymore…)

Everyone played a role in their little group. They each had a specific purpose, and though they were flexible enough to adjust according to what was currently needed, more often than not, each member was, in a sense, typecast.

Joe was 009, their charismatic, compassionate, conflicted, and capable young leader. Francoise served as both the team's lookout, 003 their ever-alert eyes and ears, and the mostly unrequited love interest for nearly all the other crew members. Jet, meanwhile, was your classic example of the 'bad boy with a heart purer than he'd ever admit', their cocky young flying ace and 002.

The list went on in that manner, longer than he cared to continue pursuing that line of thought, for it all led down to one hard truth that Britain didn't care to dwell on: he was no longer capable of playing his part.

(I can't fight with them anymore. I can't transform anymore, and even if I could…)

The pictures of his friends shifted imperceptibly, faces shifting to accusatory expressions. Though the emotions were slightly different for each one -- Jet glaring at him with undisguised hatred while beside him Joe looked on with pity and compassion -- the underlying current remained the same.

Things could never return to the way they were. He'd lost his place in the team.

Britain tried forcing the images away, but though the others soon faded into the shadows, he could still feel their cold stares cutting into him. His grip on the dream was also waning, he gradually realized, as the inky darkness deteriorated into a grayish fog. Soon that was shot through with red, ceding to a harsh white glare…

…There was a bright light shining down into his eyes. It banished the small amount of control he had over deciding how much longer he would remain asleep.

Reluctantly, Britain cracked his eyes open, only to immediately shut them against the fierce glare.

Further awareness of his surroundings came in stages, proceeding all too rapidly for Britain's tastes. The light overhead was too strong to be ignored; even with his eyes closed he could feel it beating down, forcing him back to consciousness.

(…there's no ceiling light over my bed, is there…?)

…He wasn't in his room anymore. The surface he was laying on wasn't as soft as his bed, though he thought he felt something like a sheet folded underneath him.

(…where…?)

Pinpricks of sensation formed in his wrist; when his hand stirred he could feel something lodged there. Turning his face away from the light and in that direction, Britain risked cracking his eyes open again. This time, through the glare, he could just barely make out the blurred silhouette of something -- no, some _things_ -- jutting from his arm, leading over and away toward a much larger, bulkier shape…

…a laboratory. He was in a lab.

Britain wrenched his eyes shut again, terror clamping round his furiously pounding heart.

(…Black Ghost? Is it…)

It didn't matter that he hadn't seen anything else to support that terrible theory. He wasn't restrained in any manner that he could feel, but that fact went completely ignored. Logic and reason fled in the face of blind panic.

Britain abruptly bolted upright, and with a strangled cry yanked his arm away as hard as he could. The wires tore from his wrist, the pain accompanying that motion going largely unnoticed. Folding his hand up against his chest, Britain twisted away from the machine, not wanting to even glance at it, and would have sprung from the cot in the next instant if a shout hadn't stopped him cold.

"G.B.?!"

He froze, eyes squeezed shut, the burst of panic overriding his senses dissipating rapidly as his racing mind processed the familiar voice. Then, hesitantly, Britain reopened his eyes and turned to look back behind him.

He took little comfort in the sight of familiar faces behind him. Joe was nearly out of his seat, having risen and cried out when he saw the actor spring to life and move to flee. Francoise, directly beside the lad, appeared just as startled and concerned. Albert and Geronimo didn't appear to be as affected by his little performance, simply staring at him neutrally.

"007, what has gotten into you?" Doctor Gilmore queried, studying the former shapeshifter with no small amount of concern.

Awkwardly Britain dropped his gaze to his lap, feeling his face burn with color. Things were coming into better focus now, and he realized shamefully how quickly he'd jumped to the wrong conclusions.

…But why was here, anyway? He clearly recalled lying down on his own bed, trying to get some sleep… and then…

(…Oh, no.)

"You know, we'd really appreciate an answer," Albert broke into his thoughts, straightforward and somehow a bit cold in his bluntness. "You nearly drove Francoise to distraction with your screaming. What happened back there?"

"………" Britain clenched his fists against his trembling chest, taking several deep breaths before he trusted himself to answer. Still, his voice came out weak, unsteady as he finally replied in what was little more than a whisper, "…I… had a nightmare, is all…"

"Well, obviously." Sarcasm made Albert's voice surprisingly harsh. "Mind telling us what about? Or should we try making an educated guess?"

"…No…" Britain shook his head. "It's nothing, really…"

Albert grunted, obviously not buying _that_ excuse for a second. The others simply stared at him, and Britain shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, mind casting about for some explanation that might ease their suspicions while not revealing more than he wished to. He had the sneaking suspicion that it was a lost cause, however.

"007…" sighed Gilmore, looking every bit the aged paternal figure. "We only want to help you. You do understand that, right?"

"………"

"If there's anything bothering you, please feel free to confide in any of us," the scientist continued when it became apparent that the actor wasn't going to reply. "I'm doing my best to figure out a way to fix what's happened, but I do need your cooperation."

"……Maybe…" Averting his gaze, Britain murmured something unintelligible under his breath, only the first word of which the others could make out.

All save one of them, that was. Aquamarine eyes widened slightly with surprise, and Francoise stared at the Englishman with a touch of shock entering her expression. Britain failed to notice this, however, because he'd already shifted so that his back was pointed toward his friends.

"What did you say, G.B.?" Joe inquired, rising to his feet.

"…Could you guys just leave me alone for a while? Please?"

The others exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Nobody really wanted to comply with the request, but Britain's tone was filled with such quiet despair and pleading that they'd feel guilty if they didn't. None of those present had the sort of disposition to try forcing such a delicate issue: someone like Jet might have exploded and refused outright, but the fire-tempered redhead wasn't present.

"…Ah… if you say so, pal," Joe finally acquiesced, though with no small amount of reluctance. Moving closer, he reached out to try grasping his friend's shoulder reassuringly, adding, "But, if you're ever ready to talk, then…"

But Britain flinched away from his hand, shying away from the contact like he was afraid of his leader, and Joe ended up letting his arm fall back uselessly to his side. He cast a worried look back to the others as they rose to leave, then turned and shuffled out of the room.

Britain watched surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, waiting for everyone to leave. Geronimo, the last to leave, paused in the doorway and looked back, and Britain hurriedly moved so that he wouldn't risk eye contact. Finally, the door eased closed, and he let out the breath he was holding with a faint sigh, feeling fresh tears brim in his eyes.

Silently, he mouthed his earlier words to himself, letting the realization come into clearer focus after it had formed suddenly before.

(…Maybe I don't want to be fixed.)

He wasn't able to avoid thinking about it anymore. In that instant, the thought had crystallized and he knew with a terrible certainty that it was exactly how he felt.

Without his trademark ability to transform into whatever he wanted he was useless to the rebellion. He could no longer serve any purpose in a fight or otherwise, and was really only a hindrance to the group.

But if Doctor Gilmore fixed him so that he could use his power again…

(…Would it happen all over again?)

He still didn't know exactly when he had gotten infected. For all they knew, it was a sleeper virus that could have been introduced into his system at any time. Ivan might have disabled it for the time being, but how could they be absolutely certain he couldn't have a relapse? Or, worse, Black Ghost could develop a better version, a more effective one that couldn't be affected by the telepath, and then…

…There was no guarantee that he wouldn't end up killing somebody next time.

So, if he couldn't transform, then the others were safe, but he still was useless in all other respects. Besides, it seemed very unlikely Doctor Gilmore would listen if he asked him not to repair him. It was too dangerous, he'd likely insist -- he was far too vulnerable in his condition. Black Ghost could very easily destroy him in this powerless state.

But the alternative…

(Either way, I'm a danger to the team,) Britain told himself, bitter tears trickling down his cheeks as he faced the truth. (The only way I won't be a problem for them is…)

A light knocking snapped the Englishman back to reality, and he straightened, blinking back tears. As the door creaked open behind him, Britain risked a glance back over his shoulder. He immediately regretted it, and turned his gaze to the much safer target of the ground, wishing that his unwelcome visitor would leave of his own accord.

Of course, he realized he would have no such luck.

"…G.B.?"

Chang already regretted coming here. It was the first time in a long while that he'd been able to really see his friend, and already the Chinese chef was stunned by what he beheld. In the harsh glare of the ceiling light, Britain's already pale skin seemed completely washed out, devoid of color save for the dark circles under his wide eyes. There were sticky tracks on his blotchy cheeks; a sign the Englishman must have been crying before his arrival.

"G.B.… You're a wreck," he blurted out before he could catch himself. He didn't feel too horrible about stating the truth, however. "You… you're not taking care of yourself at all, are you?"

The silence that followed told Chang all that he needed to know. Not that he couldn't already judge the truth from the actor's haggard appearance. Several different reactions flashed through his thoughts at once before he finally settled on the tried-and-true response of frustration.

"Oh, you idiot, what do you think you're doing? You're going to make yourself sick if you keep this up, if you haven't managed it already," he fussed, poorly veiling his concern with his chiding. "When's the last time you had anything to eat? Please tell me you've been remembering that, at least…"

Britain gave him a curious look; was it Chang's imagination, or did his friend actually look amazed at the fact he was getting scolded? That didn't make sense to the fire-breathing cyborg at all; after all, there was no reason he shouldn't get so upset over his friend's apparent neglect of his health.

Then, to Chang's own amazement, the Englishman actually cracked a small smile and nodded, slowly.

"Actually, I guess I'm… a little hungry," he admitted quietly.

Chang blinked, twice. Then, slowly, he broke out into a cheerful grin of his own. Britain was actually listening to his advice!

"All right, then!" he declared, beaming. "Wait right here, and I'll go fix something for you, okay? You've got to start taking better care of yourself so we can beat this thing, alright?"

Britain nodded, and Chang hurried out the door, extremely proud of himself. Finally, things looked like they were starting to improve…! If everyone just worked together, he was certain they could pull through this without any more problems.

After he left, closing the door behind him, Britain pulled himself upright and closed his eyes for a long moment, waiting. The smile he'd managed for his friend's sake took on a sorrowful twist, and he shook his head slowly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room.

Pushing off the cot, Britain hesitated just a few seconds more, listening to ensure there was nobody waiting just outside, before pushing the door open and leaving the room. Though he hadn't the heart to tell Chang, he'd already made his decision, and it didn't involve waiting for anybody else to come visit him.

~ * ~

It didn't take long for Britain to get to his destination, though he had to be careful not to run into anyone along the way. He didn't want anyone figuring out what he was up to, though who knew how long it would take after the fact for them to realize it.

The worst part was the guilt over the knowledge that Chang would probably take this even worse than he might have before. Britain tried not to consider how the chef would feel when he returned to an empty room and realized he'd been tricked.

But even that helped strengthen his resolve as well, because he didn't know exactly how much time he had left before Chang discovered his absence and alerted the others. He had to try and cover as much ground as he could before then.

It took him a few precious seconds to recall the exact code; it wasn't second nature to him like it was to other crew members. Still, he soon remembered and keyed the sequence in quickly, then, with one last glance around, opened the hatch and slipped through.

All too soon, he finished the last steps and emerged into the dusky water, taking just enough time to secure the hatch behind him before pushing away from the Dolphin.

He may not have been able to transform anymore, but he was still a cyborg, after all. And while he hadn't been specifically designed for underwater combat purposes like Pyunma, he was capable of surviving such conditions for certain periods of time.

If all went well, he should be able to reach the surface easily enough, and from there… well, he would have to play it by ear. There were probably plenty of islands close enough that he could reach without too much difficulty, and he could plan his next move from there.

The most important matter right now was getting away from the Dolphin. He was too much of a danger to everyone on it to risk staying there any longer.

Sure, it would have been simpler to jump ship if they had landed somewhere, but who knew how much longer that could have taken? Doctor Gilmore probably wasn't about to risk it before fixing his transformation ability, and Britain couldn't allow that to happen…

Even if he wasn't able to find a place to rest before his strength ran out, it would be better than the alternative choice, of remaining a liability to his friends.

Despite his resolution to leave everything behind, however, Britain couldn't restrain himself from turning to look back at the Dolphin while swimming away. He'd decided on this course of action himself, but all the same, the thought of never seeing his friends again, even if it was the only way to ensure their safety…

To his utter horror, there was movement near the hull where he'd exited.

Though his instincts shrieked at him to swim away as fast as he could, Britain couldn't bring himself to move. Already he had a sinking suspicion that it was too late. Was his attempt to leave foiled before he'd even gotten very far?

The other swimmer approached rapidly, and Britain's heart sunk further as his fears were confirmed. It was Pyunma. Obviously the dark-skinned cyborg already knew where he was, because he was moving toward him at a good pace.

…It was hopeless, then. Britain knew he had no chance of getting away from Pyunma, especially when he didn't have that great a head start on him.

…He'd completely botched it. So much for attempting to run away from his problems. There was no way the others would listen to anything he had to say now. Everyone'd be furious over his trying to leave; he wouldn't get another shot at it.

Already Pyunma had just about caught up with him; Britain had stopped trying to swim away when he realized who it was. Despairing, he cast about in vain for some sort of excuse, but still hadn't come up with anything to say when the aquatic expert reached him.

He seized his arm roughly, and pain exploded through the limb from the point of contact.

Britain's eyes widened with shock, and instinctively he tried to pull away, but Pyunma held firm. The actor shrieked against clenched teeth, and looked pleadingly at the other cyborg. He wanted to beg him to let go, but couldn't focus clearly enough through the blinding pain.

Then Pyunma's other hand clamped over his mouth, fingers digging deep. Now Britain screamed at the pain in his jaw, though the sound came out muffled by the palm pressed over the lower half of his mouth and the water. Though he struggled, Pyunma had every advantage over him, and already the ocean spun dizzily before the actor's eyes.

Just before surrendering to the pain, however, Britain found himself face to face with his captor, getting a clear view of Pyunma's coldly smirking face. A fresh wave of terror swept over him as he realized with a sudden certainty that this wasn't his teammate he was struggling with.

(…his eyes…)

Then his senses dissolved into darkness, leaving him with only the pain and the blinding fear as the world… faded…


	9. Apprehension

__

As always, the disclaimers are back in the first chapter.

~ * Apprehension * ~

Try as she may, Francoise simply could not shake the terrible feelings weighing down on her. The sensitive girl was nursing a dull headache, and she kept catching herself straining in unsuccessful attempts to pinpoint exactly what it was that kept her feeling so anxious.

It was impossible to concentrate, however, when there were so many other matters that needed attending to. She wanted to check in on Ivan shortly; she'd left Pyunma looking after the sleeping babe, but felt badly over the fact that she hadn't returned as soon as she'd promised when she first departed. Even she had to admit that it was a rather boring duty, when Ivan wasn't up and about, sometimes… although, if she remembered correctly, Pyunma had a book with him when she'd last seen him, and wasn't the type to easily anger either way.

…Especially if she explained why she'd been delayed…

That was another consideration: somebody had to fill the rest of their crew in on what had occurred. Jet likely wouldn't take it well if he believed he was the last to find out -- not that the hot-tempered redhead was likely to handle the news well either way. Oh, and Chang may not have found out yet, either… though she wasn't certain about that…

Her brisk pace down the corridor slowed, the blonde's aqua eyes drifting nearly closed as she recalled what she had overheard. Britain's whisper clearly had not been meant for any of his friends, yet her sharpened senses enabled her to catch the soft mumble and understand what he said, though she didn't quite comprehend the reasoning behind it.

('……Maybe… I don't want to be fixed…')

(G.B.… What did you mean by that…?)

Francoise knew, naturally, about how the Englishman had lost the ability to transform. Everyone on the Dolphin was aware of that development. So it wasn't a matter of her not understanding what needed to be 'fixed' in the first place.

What she couldn't comprehend was why he wouldn't want to have it repaired.

Francoise had never been overly fond of her cyborg abilities, though she'd adjusted over time as a matter of necessity. She was perfectly content with her life prior to her abduction, and initially viewed her modifications as a constant reminder of what she'd lost. She'd thought she'd never be able to cope with it; how could she, when she'd been remade into a weapon to suit that horrible organization's purposes?

Looking back, the extent of her complaints and self-pity seemed to border almost on selfishness to her. After all, she hadn't been transformed to the extent that poor Albert or Pyunma or any of the others had been changed… But at that time, it was extremely difficult for her to put anything in perspective the way that she was capable of now.

Yet some of the others had taken their more drastic transformations with far more grace than she had taken her heightened senses with.

Great Britain's entire body had been redesigned, reengineered around the concept of being able to change shape at the press of a button. But as far as Francoise or any of the others had seen, he hadn't gone through the sort of existential angst she'd submerged herself in. In fact, he seemed to enjoy experimenting with his new ability, especially after they'd escaped from Black Ghost, developing a surprising knack for quickly learning how to create and maintain new forms.

Only now, it seemed to have lost its charm for him.

Thanks to Black Ghost's latest plot, G.B. had lost more than just his ability to transform. He no longer accepted who he was, what he had become… and in dealing with that, he was doing more than pushing away the others.

He was rejecting himself.

…This couldn't continue. Of that much Francoise was certain. If Britain remained convinced that it was better for him not to have his powers restored… if he decided it was safer not to be repaired, regardless of the danger that placed him in…

(…If he thinks that… we'd be better off… without him able to…)

Her eyes, nearly closed, abruptly shot back open, and her bowed head snapped upward, a tiny gasp escaping her parted lips. A terrible possibility had just come into focus for the lass, and she felt foolish for not seeing it sooner.

(G.B.… you can't be thinking of…)

Thoughts whirling madly, Francoise broke into a brisk jog, trying to tame the maelstrom raging in her mind enough to pinpoint the scientist's location. She had to let Doctor Gilmore know about her suspicions…!

Dimly, she wished she could go to Britain directly, but wasn't certain what effect confronting the former actor would have. Would he deny it? Or, worse, confirm what she suspected and insist it was the only way to solve everything.

She didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to know… if he had really changed his attitude so much that…

…Doctor Gilmore had to be informed. Surely there was something he could do to fix things…! There had to be a way to prevent what she was beginning to believe was a terribly real possibility from occurring…

~ * ~

Chang couldn't quite decide whether he was more upset or worried yet.

Contrary to how he felt right now, Chang was certainly not stupid. As soon as he opened the door to find an abandoned room he'd known G.B. had tricked him into leaving so that he could sneak out.

…He'd been tricked, not lied to. There was a subtle difference. Though it may have been an excuse to keep the chef occupied while he slipped away, Chang was certain his judgement was correct on other matters. Britain definitely hadn't been eating well lately, and probably was hungry, his other unfortunate actions aside.

Apparently, Britain just figured starvation was better than having his friends around.

Now that was a logic Chang couldn't follow at all, even if it did serve as a decent explanation for his old friend's behavior. At a time like this, wouldn't it be better to keep those you cared about closer, and let them help you through your problems…?

If he had been the one targeted… if Black Ghost had found a way to control Chang and make him turn his flames on the others… the portly cyborg knew he'd want to be assured that they forgave him for what he'd done while under Black Ghost's sway. He'd want to be a part of the team again… would do anything to make certain that nobody hated him for what happened…

(…If I thought… everyone hated me… I couldn't take it…)

That was why Chang was trying to work through his anger while he searched for his friend. Sure, he was upset that he'd been tricked -- who wouldn't be? He was only trying to help Britain come to terms with the incident, and yet here he was, having his kindness thrown back in his face and ignored.

But if he vented his anger at Britain, it wouldn't help matters at all. G.B. was already convinced enough that the others despised him, and that couldn't go on. Chang had to prove he was mistaken…

Still, all his convictions temporarily fled when he finally stumbled across the shapeshifter. Despite the fact that he was searching for Britain, the sudden ease with which he located him took Chang off guard: rounding a corner to find the Englishman standing there. Britain seemed completely unaware of his approach; he instead gazed silently out at the ocean, both hands resting lightly against the reinforced glass of the portal.

Apparently the former actor was off in his own little world at the moment… though whether or not it was a brighter or darker reality than their own couldn't be judged.

Despite himself, Chang's relief at seeing his friend doing just fine quickly sharpened into fury. If nothing was wrong, then why the deception in the first place?!

"G.B.!" he shouted, stomping forward and closing the small distance between them in the space of a few minutes. "You shouldn't be wandering around in your condition! Do you realize how worried I was when I found out you'd left! I'd thought…"

Then he trailed off, partly because Chang abruptly realized that he still didn't know exactly how to describe how he'd felt. Surprised, yes, of course, but also confused, furious, frightened, suspecting that… what? What was he afraid of…?

(…That he'd do something stupid. Like… oh, I don't know!)

More instrumental in causing his sudden silence, however, was the expression on Britain's face when he glanced away from the window and at the ranting chef. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and one corner of his mouth, which was otherwise set in a neutral line, twitched upward. Then his attention turned back to the watery depths outside, ignorant of how Chang stared at him.

Again, several conflicting emotions warred for dominance inside the stunned fire-breather: this time concern managing to override rage and alarm. Face scrunching up with the dread growing in the pit of his stomach, he tried starting over, pretending his earlier mini-tirade had never occurred.

"…Umm… Why did you leave like that? I told you I'd be back as soon I as could… When I found you weren't there anymore, I was worried…"

"Oh, please."

Chang blinked repeatedly, staring at Britain.

"Huh?" he asked intelligently.

Britain's hands, still pressed against the cool glass pane, were gradually tightening into fists, all color flooding out of the knuckles as they ground against the smooth, unyielding surface. Chang's attention, however, was focused on the Englishman's face, watching how his friend's features tightened, his eyes squeezing shut.

"…G.B., what's wro…"

"If you can't figure that out, then you're more of an idiot than I thought," snapped Britain, turning to skewer the shorter cyborg with a narrow glare. "The last thing I need is to have to listen to your whining. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want you around?"

"……" Chang's mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but no sound came out. Heat flooded across his face, and he struggled to find a voice to respond, or at least the words even if he couldn't get them out, but couldn't settle on anything.

Britain glared down his nose at the chef, lips curling slightly in derision. 

"I don't need anyone's fake sympathy right now. Especially not yours. Understand?" His gaze shifted to the side, studying the space where the opposite wall met the floor with a cold intensity. Britain's voice dropped, the heat leaving his tone low and dead, as he repeated, "I don't need it… don't deserve it…"

He turned away, to exit the same direction that Chang had come from. Now that Britain wasn't pinning him down with his frigid stare, however, Chang found the will to move again, and made a clumsy grab for the shapeshifter's sleeve. Though he couldn't think too clearly through the torrent of emotions raging inside, the fire-breather was keenly aware that he couldn't allow his friend to walk away like this. If Britain was hurting so badly inside that he'd snap like that…

Somehow, his blind grab managed to brush against Britain's arm, and Chang instinctively tightened his hold, crushing the dark wool against the wrist hidden underneath.

"G.B., listen…"

But that was all he was able to choke out before Britain whirled around, yanking his arm out of Chang's grasp. If his eyes had been cold before, now they blazed with fury, and the manner in which he raised the hand he'd latched onto made it seem like he was about to strike the shorter cyborg.

However, that impression was no sooner made than Britain let it drop back to his side, seemingly preferring instead to glare down at the stunned Chang.

"…Don't _ever_ try touching me again," he grated out between clenched teeth, before whirling on his heel and storming away, leaving the paralyzed chef behind.

Chang gaped silently, once again at a complete loss for words. The feeling flooded out of his legs, yet he remained standing as though rooted to the spot, staring at his departing friend's back.

(…I don't… understand… G.B., I… we only want to try and help… Why won't you let us…?)

~ * ~

"He _WHAT?!_"

In retrospect, Joe decided, it might have been better not to tell Jet about the entire nightmare episode with Britain -- at least, not until they got a little more closure with the whole mess.

Then again, Jet probably wouldn't have been too thrilled no matter when he found out about the incident. Still, faced with the flame-haired American's reaction, bronze eyes blazing with outrage, Joe considered too late the possibility of letting someone else break the news more gently to him.

Too late for that now, though. Now he was stuck on damage control.

"Jet, calm down," he tried soothing, raising and waving his hands lightly in front of him. "G.B.'s fine now, at least…"

The frankly disbelieving look Jet gave him informed Joe that the redhead didn't trust _that_ lame little reassurance for a second. 

Trying to infuse a little more confidence into his words, Joe amended, "Well, he seemed a lot calmer after he woke up… I think we just have to give him more time…"

"More time?" echoed Jet incredulously. "It's been two weeks! We're wasting time hiding and doing nothing while Black Ghost's out there looking for us! How long 'till he finds us, huh? Do you want to be caught while we're like this?!"

"Of course not! But…" Jet spun on his heel, and Joe reached out, blurting, "Hey, Jet…"

"007 needs to snap out of it," the spiky-haired cyborg growled lowly, tone carrying a bitter undercurrent. "I'm gonna talk some sense into him…"

"Hang on!" Joe caught the redhead by the shoulder. "I don't think that's such a good idea, Jet…" (Especially since you don't sound like you're in the mood for talking…)

"Why?!" He had Jet's attention again, but wasn't sure that he wanted it, thanks to the fire he glimpsed in the hawk's sharp copper eyes. "Anything's better than sitting around here waiting for nothing to happen…"

"Jet… Please, don't." Joe chewed the inside of his lip briefly, garnet-stone eyes shining underneath his thick brown bangs. "Really… I don't think that'll solve anything."

Jet glared at his leader for a long moment, face remaining in its furious cast even while he wavered internally. Truthfully, he knew forcing the issue most likely wouldn't have any sort of desirable outcome, but still… doing _nothing_, while G.B. continued to withdraw and the rest of the team struggled in this damnable state…

"…Damnit, where the hell is Pyunma?" he muttered under his breath at length, averting his eyes just slightly away from the pleading face before him. "He should have been here for training by now…"

Joe wasn't phased by the sudden shift in topics, recognizing that it wasn't as abrupt a change as it sounded. Stranded underwater in the Dolphin like this, sometimes training was a welcome way to burn off excess energy, to say nothing of the stress of remaining trapped on board.

"Probably still looking after Ivan," he supplied, along with an apologetic smile. "But, I wouldn't mind getting in a few rounds myself…"

"…Nah, I'll wait," Jet grumbled, shrugging Joe's hand free of his shoulder.

"Really, I don't mind…"

"It's not a good idea, Joe. Trust me."

The dark look he gave the brown-haired cyborg under the cover of his wild bangs probably should have been a clear signal for his companion to drop it. Joe did catch the expression on the other's face, in fact, and correctly interpreted it as a warning to back off.

However, he failed to heed it. After all, Jet wasn't the only one feeling tense because of recent events and being confined to the ship. Plus, considering how he was coming off his injuries, it was important he try to speed his recovery, right…?

"Jet, come on," he goaded, still smiling. "Why can't I partner with you at least until Pyunma gets here? I'm just as good a fighter as he is…"

"Are you sure about that?"

Joe flinched. "What…?"

Bronze irises flashed in the shadows cast by fiery locks. The stare Jet was fixing his leader with seemed to be growing more heated by the second. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he grated out each word in a hateful undertone.

"You nearly got yourself killed during the fight, just because you wouldn't raise a hand against 007. You practically let him tear you apart!"

"Ah… Well, what was I supposed to do?" Joe was amazed by the sudden venom leaking into his retort as he snapped, "It wasn't his fault, and…"

"I _KNOW_ it wasn't his fault, but you think that stunt you pulled helped anything?!" Cutting off Joe before he could continue, Jet exploded, "I ran into him myself, you know that?! I would've dragged him back if I'd gotten half the chance, but he refused! And he said -- he told me…"

"…Told you what?" prompted Joe when the redhead abruptly fell silent, wincing as the copper eyes boring into him sharpened with pent-up frustration.

"…'Stay away. I don't want to hurt you.'" All the fury had drained from Jet's tone, leaving his voice low and deadly. "He couldn't control it, Joe. I saw his face when he hit me--"

For an instant, his thoughts flashed back to that moment in time -- the agony he'd glimpsed twisting the Englishman's face as he watched the hawk plummet from the sky with a hole in his leg. Jet gritted his teeth at the memory, reliving the realization he'd had then -- and the difficult decision he'd come to after reawakening and remembering the sight.

(Anything's better than that sort of slow torture… I couldn't let him suffer like that…)

Snarling, he whirled and drove his fist into the nearest target. He ignored how wide Joe's eyes went -- he could only see one of them anyway, thanks to his leader's distinctive hairstyle -- and ground his knuckles into the unyielding surface, wishing there was something more satisfying to turn his frustration against.

But, at the moment, the only target he had was the wall.

"…Jet…" Joe breathed at length.

"…009…" Jet glared over the slope of his arm at his astonished partner. "You didn't help anything with that little 'please come back' stunt of yours. All it probably did… was make it worse for 007…"

He turned suddenly, no longer able to take looking at the shell-shocked expression on the Japanese lad's face. All it did was increase his urge to find something to pound the crap out of. Holding his fists stiffly at his sides, Jet stalked off to do just that.

Gradually, Joe's gaze tracked down to the floor, his widened eyes eventually closing in a slow blink.

…Was Jet right…? …Had he really… hurt G.B. by staying there and making himself a target…?

"…I… didn't mean it…" he whispered to the empty room.

~ * ~

The only sounds in the chamber were the quiet rhythm of the sleeping Ivan's steady breathing and the rustle of paper whenever Pyunma turned to the next page in his book.

They were alone for now, although the aquatic expert was expecting Francoise to come and trade places with him any time now so that he could go keep his promised training session with Jet. He wasn't too annoyed by her prolonged absence, however, even if it meant that the short-tempered redhead would snap at him when he finally arrived.

After all, he didn't often get a lot of chances to get very far in his reading.

The fact that he'd chosen to pass the time in this manner wouldn't exactly surprise any of his colleagues, though they might have raised some eyebrows if they found out what the subject manner was. Who knew how they'd react if they learned their straight-laced, practical combat specialist was currently enjoying a good fantasy novel?

Not that Pyunma really cared how they'd react. He was just as entitled to free time as the rest of them were. It was nice to temporarily immerse himself in the trials and tribulations of some fictional world, fanciful places filled with colorful casts wielding swords and magic as commonly as their enemies did science and machinery.

It was as good a way as any to take his mind off the sort of problems they faced all the time. Other types of fiction, like sci-fi in particular, had a tendency to hit too close to home for his comfort.

He never completely tuned reality out, however; when the door slid open, he immediately looked up from his tone, slipping his bookmark into place.

To his mild surprise, however, it wasn't the female member of their crew standing on the other side. Rising to his feet and tucking his book in the crook of his arm, Pyunma crossed to meet his visitor at the door.

"G.B.? What are you doing here?" he queried.

"…I…" Britain stared shyly at the floor, reluctant to meet the dark-skinned cyborg's curious gaze. "…I wanted to try and start helping out again around the ship, and I thought…"

Pyunma immediately caught on, and nodded slightly, regarding the actor carefully. Since he couldn't transform anymore, it wasn't as if they could ask him to fight or anything… He probably wasn't too comfortable around Chang, since his shift in attitude made it near impossible for the two to interact the way they once had… There weren't really too many options available.

Still…

"What brought this on?" he questioned, resting his shoulder almost unconsciously against the doorframe.

"I…" Britain folded his hands together, rocking slightly from side to side as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. "…001 saved me, and I want… I wanted to try and repay the favor, even if I can't really do that much…"

Again Pyunma nodded, more to himself than to the man standing before him, but he didn't move aside just yet. There was a nagging at the back of his head, his instincts alerting him to the fact that something seemed… off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it yet…

"…Never mind…" Britain turned away shortly, despondent. "This was a stupid idea… I'm sorry…"

"…G.B.… wait."

The bald cyborg paused, but didn't move to look back at Pyunma. Instead he continued to stare at the ground, mumbling self-recriminations under his breath. The sight of his friend looking so downtrodden made Pyunma feel guilty: Why still he still get the feeling there was something he was missing…? After everything Britain had been through, to treat him like this…

"Look, G.B., I think…"

"Just forget about it, 008. I shouldn't have even brought it up… I'm sorry…"

"G.B.…"

"There you are, G.B.!"

Pyunma and Britain looked up to see Francoise jogging up to them. The pretty blonde gave both men a remorseful look when she reached them, though Pyunma got the impression she was apologizing for two very different reasons with the same expression.

"Doctor Gilmore says he's going to try and figure out what's wrong again," she offered by way of explanation, "and I'm going to see if I can't help out. Pyunma, I'm really sorry, but…"

"That's okay, Francoise," Pyunma shook his head at her unneeded repentance. "I don't mind at all. Whatever helps, right?"

She shot him a thankful look, then turned her full attention to the silent Britain.

"Come on," she prompted gently, reaching out to take his arm, "I'll take you there."

Before she could make contact, Britain jerked his arm away and stepped backward, just out of easy reach by either of his companions.

"Just lead the way," he mumbled, eyes downcast. "I can follow just fine, thank you."

"…Ah…" Francoise cast a pleading look toward Pyunma, but the aquatic expert shrugged, unable to help out in this situation. At length, she nodded hesitantly. "All… alright, then."

She turned and started off, glancing over her shoulder now and then as if to ensure that the shapeshifter was actually behind her. Britain did follow, trailing behind like a shadow of flesh and blood, though from the way his face was slightly averted it looked like he was watching the wall instead.

Pyunma shook his head slowly, wondering why his sense of trepidation hadn't quite faded -- or why he was having it in the first place. His book rested in his arm forgotten for the moment as he turned things over in his thoughts, trying to comprehend what bothered him so, yet he came up with nothing.


	10. Revelation

__

The disclaimers are back in the first chapter, where they've always been. Lots of important details revealed here, though, sadly, not the name of the book Pyunma's been reading. Hopefully what is here will make up for that, Kukabura. Here's a fun game: see if you can guess where I was considering ending this chapter on a particularly nasty cliffhanger.

~ * Revelation * ~

"…I just can't believe he brushed me off like that. I was only trying to help…"

Geronimo Junior's gaze was not without sympathy as he studied the stout, downtrodden cyborg sitting across from him. Chang fiddled absently with the mug in his hands, his tone, much like his expression, fluctuating between two conflicting emotions: anxiety and indignation. It was easy to judge how he fluttered back and forth between both, all the while grappling with his overwhelming confusion.

The chef's consternation was understandable. While Geronimo hardly approved of Britain's actions, he believed he was also capable of understanding the former shapeshifter's reasoning.

"We must remain patient, Chang. This is a difficult time for all of us."

"I know… I _know_, but…" Huffing, Chang set his cup down with a tad more force than necessary, making the green tea ripple wildly. "He could have been a little nicer about it…"

He folded his arms and looked away, his sullen posture causing him to resemble a stubborn teenager more than the mature adult he was. Geronimo gazed over the bridge formed by his interlaced fingers, visage as inscrutable as ever.

"…I believe I may have an explanation for his behavior."

"Eh?"

Chang cracked open one eye to fix his companion with an inquisitive squint, wondering if he had heard correctly. The giant had spoken so softly that he'd barely caught the comment. When it became apparent that no more information was forthcoming, the shorter cyborg turned back to face him fully, and cocked his head to one side curiously.

"…Back in the infirmary… I noticed he was behaving very strangely."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," muttered Chang under his breath.

Ignoring the interruption, Geronimo continued, "He acted very nervous, especially when anyone tried to approach him. When Joe attempted to reach out to him, he shied away as if afraid…"

"…Afraid of Joe?"

Geronimo shook his head slowly, and his already dusky eyes seemed to darken further just before he closed them.

"Afraid of being touched. Afraid of contact. …It makes me wonder if there are side-effects to that virus that 007 hasn't informed us about."

When the silence that followed stretched out to an uncomfortable length, Geronimo looked carefully to his companion, attempting to gauge his reaction. The firebreather's rosy complexion seemed a bit paler than normal, and he appeared to have discovered something extremely interesting about his cup, cradling it once more in slightly trembling hands.

Again, it was not horribly difficult for Geronimo to guess what the other cyborg was thinking. He certainly didn't require Francoise's enhanced senses to practically see the gears turning as Chang processed this latest information and pieced together matters for himself.

"You mean that… you think that… there's something wrong with his skin?"

"At this point, we can only speculate. But… judging from how he's attempted to isolate himself from everyone… avoiding all forms of contact…"

Slowly, reluctantly, Chang nodded, more to himself than to the giant sitting across from him. The more he considered the concept, the more it fit. Britain's self-imposed exile aboard the Dolphin… The glimpses of panic he'd spotted in the actor's eyes… His reaction to being grabbed…

(…Ah! I didn't hurt him, did I?! I didn't know…)

Seeing remorse flood the stout chef's features, Geronimo decided to intervene before his comrade started berating himself over something he couldn't control. What was done was done; there was no use obsessing over it.

"There was no way you could have known. As I said, G.B. has not exactly volunteered to explain what he has been going through. That is his choice, and we cannot begrudge him that."

Chang still looked unconvinced. His face retained its vaguely haunted, guilty expression, and he gripped his cup so tightly it seemed the ceramic might crack. Geronimo offered him a slight smile.

"Have patience, friend," he instructed calmly. "Given time, I am certain we will find the solution we seek. We must allow 007 to work through this at his own pace."

A wonderful sentiment, Chang decided silently, but hardly as comforting as intended. Hopeful words did little to soothe the tightness in the pit of his stomach as he remembered seeing his friend's face contorted with anger.

(…And if just being touched hurts, then why was he about to hit me?)

Shaking his head, Chang set his mug back down and stood up. The tea was suddenly too bitter for his taste.

"I'm going to try apologizing," he announced, heading for the door. "I mean, it certainly can't hurt, right?"

Nodding, Geronimo commented, "I believe that Doctor Gilmore was planning another checkup, to try and determine what happened earlier. You'll likely find him there."

"Thanks, G-Junior," and Chang nodded and smiled his gratitude before stepping outside, letting the portal slide shut behind him.

~ * ~

There is always a logical and thorough explanation for everything in life; of that simple fact Gilmore was convinced. Finding that truth, however, could be maddeningly difficult at times.

The fact that knowledge continued to elude him would not have been half as frustrating if it wasn't so apparent that the welfare of someone he cared for hung in the balance. That, combined with how much time had passed with his research on the subject seemingly going nowhere, was enough to drive the poor man up the wall.

(This time,) he promised himself, (I will find the answer! This has gone on for two weeks too long.) 

It certainly hadn't helped that Francoise had divulged certain suspicions of hers to the elderly scientist. Truthfully, similar doubts had festered in the corners of his mind for some time now, though it had taken his delicate swan's confession to focus his misgivings.

Even now, the pretty blonde stood off to one side; she insisted that the good doctor accept her assistance this time, and Gilmore was glad for her presence. If it would help ease her troubled thoughts as well as give him an extra pair of hands…

As for their patient, Britain was currently sitting on the edge of his cot, gazing around the infirmary with an unreadable expression on his face. Though his features remained neutral, whenever his wandering gaze traveled over where the scientist stood Gilmore felt chills course down his spine.

Probably due to his suspicions, he reasoned with himself, shooting the Englishman a sympathetic glance now and again while preparing his equipment. After all, the mere notion that somebody who had been so cheerful and upbeat could change so radically that he considered certain options…

…No. That definitely wasn't an option at all. That was one choice he had to prevent Britain was making at all costs…

Back turned to his patient, Gilmore examined the thin IV line in his hands, careful not to prick himself on the small needle at the end of the flexible tube. A part of him quailed internally at the thought of what he was preparing to do, yet he squelched his doubts by reminding himself that it was all for the best. Things couldn't proceed in this manner any further.

All the same, the doctor wondered if this was a betrayal of trust. He hadn't yet informed Britain of his intentions, and didn't plan to, for fear of what reaction he might receive. Would G.B. be shocked? Upset? Would he be angry when he found out -- or, worse, suspect other, darker intentions? …And would he prefer such a procedure to his current state?

Shaking his head, Gilmore dispelled his dark musings. Far better to focus on the task at hand rather than lose himself in such dismal speculations. What mattered was the facts, and more importantly, ensuring the welfare of his patient.

It was far too dangerous to allow Britain to continue wandering around the Dolphin unsupervised, trapped in his own private suffering. The best way to ensure he didn't act on any darker impulses was to return to his original treatment methods -- rendering the former shapeshifter unconscious using drugs while he continued his research. It wasn't exactly the way Gilmore preferred to do things, but there was little to be done about it.

Still, it was a shame it was coming to this. Gilmore would have rather used some other method, but what else was there? Nothing that he could think of at the moment…

"…Doctor Gilmore?"

The query was so soft that the scientist almost missed it entirely. Immediately he looked over his shoulder, back to where his patient was waiting. Britain didn't quite meet his gaze, dark eyes instead focused on the doctor's back as he spoke again.

"Doctor… How do you deal with… feeling useless?"

"…What?" Gilmore blinked rapidly, taken off guard by the question. Setting the line down for the moment, he turned to fully face the former shapeshifter and asked, "What do you mean, 007?"

"I mean…" Britain's gaze shifted to his feet, dangling off the edge of the bed just inches above the pristine floor. "How do you deal with… being the only human around? Everyone else has such incredible powers, but you…"

(…and I,) Gilmore continued the statement mentally as the bald cyborg trailed off, understanding the question more clearly now.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Francoise pause in the middle of her task, and knew she was listening for his response as well. Closing his eyes, he took a few moments to prepare what he hoped was a sufficient reply, then looked back to the waiting shapeshifter.

"…I don't see it as a problem. There are plenty of ways I can help the team, even without any gifts of my own. I do what I can…"

"But… in a battle, you're still useless. If you can't fight with everyone else, then what's the point?"

"…007… there's more to life than fighting."

"But it's still important to fight Black Ghost, right?"

"…Not every battle is won with physical skill alone." Uncomfortable with this line of discussion, Gilmore turned back to his equipment. "People can't live their lives endlessly fighting without any rest or peace; that's the surest path to self-destruction. I know you understand that…"

Off to one side, Francoise fingered the controls in front of her without much interest, lost in her own thoughts. Aquamarine eyes misted over, as inside a small part of her crumbled at the actor's words. Had G.B. been hurt so badly by what happened that he'd forgotten something he'd always seemed so convinced of…?

Dimly, without consciously realizing it, Francoise glimpsed the Englishman rising to his feet. Before she could fully grasp this, she caught sight of something that caused the breath to catch in her throat, aqua pupils dilating.

Comprehension came only after reaction. What immediately followed blurred together in her mind, instincts goading her to move even before she understood what was happening.

"Doctor, _move!_"

For Gilmore, it was perhaps even more confusing since he was unaware of what spurred Francoise's shout. All he immediately knew was that her spread palm slammed into his back, knocking him down. Her cry rose into a shriek as she landed ungracefully on top of him, flattening both against the ground.

Something fluttered at the edge of his vision: it took precious seconds for Gilmore to comprehend that it was a length of yellow scarf. Or, rather, most of a scarf, one end of which was cut at a sharp angle.

Francoise's scarf -- the rest of which still hung around her neck.

From his awkward angle on the floor, Gilmore could not see clearly beyond the heavily breathing female sprawled across him. He could just barely make out, however, where her muffler had been severed in the back, a bit below where the knot rested at the back of her neck.

He could also glimpse where her uniform was torn, lining up roughly with where her scarf had been bisected -- and a rapidly reddening gash where pale flesh was exposed underneath.

"Fra--Francoi…"

Another figure stepped into view, and although most of their body was obscured by the slope of the female cyborg's heaving shoulders, the sight was enough to make Gilmore's words freeze in his throat. The pieces rapidly clicked together, forming a terrible picture for the scientist, and he inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself.

"…Br…Britain?" Even with his preparations, his voice cracked when he tried to force out the name. "Wh…why…?"

The shapeshifter smirked, cruelly. Where his hand should have been jutted a blade instead, a crude spear-point that he swung idly at his side while leering down at the collapsed pair. His other hand rested on his hip, adding further insolence to his posture.

"Oh. Don't tell me you haven't figured it out yet, _Doctor._" Britain's voice oozed with sarcasm, venom dripping from his twisted voice. "Disappointing, really. I thought you were the mastermind behind this pathetic rebellion."

"…G…G.B.… What's…"

"'What's happened to me?' Why, nothing! As you can see, I'm perfectly fine!" Brandishing his transmuted arm, he sneered, "Functioning exquisitely, no thanks to you. But then, you didn't have a hand in it either way."

"…Wh…" Gilmore tried pushing up off the floor, but Francoise still lay over him -- protectively, he realized now. "…Wha…"

"I'm not the man you thought I was." The shapeshifter's smirk widened into a nasty leer. "Haven't been for a while now, really. Your security leaves much to be desired."

"…Who are you?" Wavering aquamarine eyes now stared up at the stranger towering over them in the guise of a friend, while Francoise shifted her weight so that Gilmore was still shielded by her body. "Where's G.B.?"

"Hmph. If you must know, I shipped your broken shapeshifter off to be fixed, since, after all, you were doing such a poor job of it here."

"You…what…?"

The false Britain sneered as Francoise and Gilmore paled at his callous statement; apparently for all their other shortcomings, their feeble minds were capable of grasping the meaning of his words. Good, since he didn't feel like wasting any more time with these fools.

"You bore me," he declared, raising his sharpened arm. Voice dropping into a sibilant tone that sounded completely wrong coming from the actor, he hissed, "Bye."

His limb lanced forward, catching Francoise in the back as she hastily pushed Gilmore away. The blonde shrieked, the barb burrowing through her skin and emerging on the other side of her right shoulder, the bloodied tip nearly piercing the startled scientist's chest as well.

The force of her shove sent Gilmore sprawling against the cabinet of the computer behind them, and instinctively he slammed his hand down on the keypad. Instantly an alarm blared, almost deafening in the infirmary, and Gilmore's hand slid toward a second button to open communication with the rest of the Dolphin.

"Ah, ah, ah!" A blade of transmuted flesh crashed down between him and the controls, nearly catching his hand neatly. "That's a good way to lose a finger, doctor."

Swallowing hard, heart thudding in his ears, Gilmore cast a hunted glare toward the shapeshifter. Even through the flashing lights, he could perceive several changes in the cast of the stranger's face. Though they remained mostly in Britain's stolen features, the eyes that bore into him now were no longer a dark brown, but a much paler hue.

Francoise lay on the floor, left hand clasped over her wounded shoulder, and though her blonde bangs hung over her face Gilmore could see how she bit her lip in agony. Over the blare of the alarm, he heard the all-too-welcome pound of footsteps, and the portal swung open wide to admit fresh noise and light from the outside hallway.

"What's going on -- Ahh?!"

Before Joe could even finish his question, the shapechanged intruder charged toward him, crashing into the startled speedster shoulder-first and knocking both into the hallway. The shapeshifter recovered first, scarcely even faltering; the impact did little to impede his retreat down the hallway.

At least now Gilmore could slam his hand down on the desired button unimpeded, and his frantic bellow rang out over the blaring alarm, fueled by fear and desperation.

"There's an intruder on board -- a shapeshifter! Everyone be careful! This isn't 007 we're dealing with; it's someone else!"

~ * ~

Scattered throughout the Dolphin, its crew listened in shock to the announcement and reacted accordingly.

"God_dammit_!" cursed Jet, tearing out of the training room at full speed, the boosters in his heels nearly igniting in his fury. "I knew something like this'd happen…!"

A tome dropped forgotten from limp fingers as Pyunma stared at the wallspeaker. For once, shock clearly showed itself on the typically collected young man's features as things clicked together in his mind. Casting a look to the sleeping babe lying in the bassinet in front of him, Pyunma suppressed a horrified shudder at his realization.

Geronimo sprung to his feet, similarly stunned, though even now little of his shock showed on his stoic face. His onyx eyes widened in comprehension, however, and he turned for the door.

Chang broke into a run, his previous slow gait abandoned, a thousand jumbled thoughts flashing through his mind at once. There was no sign of further explanations forthcoming; he needed to try and discover the answers for himself, though he already feared what he might discover next…

~ * ~

(Crap.)

Several vile and unrepeatable phrases followed that particular curse as Mimic barreled down the hallway at full speed. Though the shapeshifter enjoyed his powers, at that particular moment, he envied the rebel 009 for his acceleration ability.

There was no chance of finishing the mission as originally intended now. His cover was blown, his identity as one of Black Ghost's minions revealed – though he hadn't been foolish enough to give his name, Mimic had seen the comprehension on the damnable doctor and female's faces. They knew what he meant by what little he had bothered to say to them.

Fat lot of good that knowledge would do them, however.

There was more danger in staying here than abandoning the mission and asking for further orders. Mimic already suspected that his master was aware that this was a lost cause at the moment -- he'd gotten the impression this tactic was already abandoned in favor of his new plan.

Loyalty aside, he was pretty pissed at Black Ghost right now.

If the rebels had any brains between the lot of them, they had to realize he wasn't about to stick around. Likely he'd run into opposition before he could leave the Dolphin -- although he was an uninvited guest, they probably wanted him to stick around now, for their own reasons…

Sure enough, just as he reached the hatchway that served as a portal out of the submarine, Mimic heard shouting from behind, and knew they'd correctly predicted his intentions. However, the shapeshifter already had a plan for dealing with such interference. Pivoting on his heel, dropping the guise of his 00-number counterpart, Mimic braced, preparing for the impending confrontation.

~ * ~

Albert barreled down the corridor at full-speed, acutely aware of Joe at his heels, more aware of where he was headed -- and where the assassin likely was escaping to.

Even with that expectation, however, he was sorely unprepared for what awaited them in the bay.

He ground to a halt just after crossing the doorway, liquid steel eyes widening a fraction. Behind him, he heard Joe grind to a halt, gasp, then suck in a breath angrily.

"I wouldn't move if I were you."

The voice that declared this was deceptively light, almost cheerful in tone -- though he supposed, bitterly, that the intruder had much to be pleased about. An unfamiliar cyborg stood just in front of the hatchway leading outside the Dolphin, the same portal they used when they needed to leave the ship while traveling underwater.

It seemed the shapeshifter had abandoned all pretense of false forms. A pair of sardonically narrowed green eyes, such a pale shade of green they appeared almost yellow, glittered mockingly above a smug little smirk. Short black hair framed a pale face, a good match for the dark bodysuit that hugged the shapeshifter's lithe form.

Both of the strange cyborg's hands were fastened tightly around the neck of the stout figure standing rigid in front of her. Chang's face was flushed, fearful, and he stared pleadingly at his stunned comrades, scarcely able to breathe for the claws playing at his chin.

"Let him go," Albert grated though clenched teeth. Inwardly, he despaired at his lack of options: he couldn't use his abilities inside the Dolphin, hostage situation aside.

"Oh, I don't think so," the assassin all but giggled, leering over her captive's terrified face at her would-be opponents. "After all, this keeps the odds even, don't you think? Two against one is hardly fair… Don't even think of accelerating, 009, unless you'd enjoy seeing his blood on our hands."

"Let 006 go!" shouted Joe, hands balling into helpless fists at his sides. "You don't have to do this."

"Hmm…" Cocking her head to one side, the intruder actually appeared to consider his command, looking thoughtful for a moment. "You know, you do have a point, 009."

Joe blinked, uncomprehending. Albert looked similarly confused, taken off guard by this comment.

"You're right, actually." Closing her eyes, the assassin smiled, almost cutely, almost innocently, though her grip on Chang's collar belied her agreement. "You see…"

A sharp crack cut through the air.

"…I'm supposed to kill all you rebels, so taking a hostage is counter-productive, isn't it?" she finished lightly, running her bloodied fingers through Chang's hair as the chef's head lolled to one side on his broken neck. "I really should be more efficient…"

Her words were lost in the screams tearing from Joe and Albert's throats as they lunged, temporarily blinded to everything save the sight of their teammate's limp body in the assassin's clutches. In that instant, all previous concerns flew out the window -- all that mattered was making the shapeshifter pay for what she'd done.

Seeing the pair charge with murder in their eyes, Mimic smirked.

Releasing the corpse leaning against her, she allowed it to melt back into her legs, then lashed out at the charging cyborgs, knocking them aside easily. Her right arm blurred, became a whip that fastened around Joe's neck and swung him into his partner's side, knocking both into the wall.

Sparing them a glance, she sneered. It was pathetic how easily they'd fallen for her little bluff, but then, what could be expected from sentimental fools like these rebels? Pity she had no time to finish her handiwork; more footsteps thudded ever closer, and though she now had real hostages to work with, Mimic didn't want to test how many grief-maddened cyborgs she could knock aside without getting injured herself.

Turning to the portal, she punched in the sequence and dove through before the hatchway could open completely, forcing it shut behind her. Another repeat of the same actions and she was through, emerging into the ocean with a triumphant laugh bubbling inside.

Pushing away from the Dolphin, she shifted so that her slender figure blended in with the water, making it harder to discern where she was, and swum away as quickly as her shapeshifting body would propel her.

Now it was merely a matter of finding her escort back to the base without getting detected by those rebel fools. Despite the failure of her mission, Mimic grinned, aware that her master was already pleased by what she had accomplished instead. Once she returned, she could see the fruits of those labors for herself -- and, who knew? Perhaps she could come to understand his motivations. Judging from what she's gauged of the 00-numbers' reactions, Mimic felt she was already beginning to comprehend his reasoning…

~ * ~

…It was damp, cold, and his sweater clung uncomfortably to his skin. Wool wasn't exactly the best choice for swimwear, though he hadn't been thinking clearly enough to pick out more suitable attire before leaving.

Besides, he hadn't thought there was any time…

Britain regretted it now, though, regretted it sorely as he returned to the waking world with no small amount of reluctance. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he shifted his weight several times in a futile attempt to find a slightly more comfortable position.

Not only was the tightly woven fabric being completely uncooperative, however, but whatever he was lying upon was similarly unyielding, hard and cool against his back. Even the cots in the infirmary weren't nearly this stiff -- heck, even the tiled floor was better than this! It felt more like…

(…Concrete? Steel?)

His eyes opened to formless darkness, bleaker, somehow, than the darkness that existed behind his eyelids. Blinking several times, Britain pushed himself upright, looking around in confusion.

(…Where…?)

This wasn't the Dolphin; that much he was certain of. Sitting in the shadows, he gathered his thoughts, trying to figure out how he'd arrived… wherever he was.

(…Pyunma… no, it wasn't… …green eyes… no, yellow eyes…?)

Springing to his feet, he looked around frantically, knowing with a sudden horrible certainty the most likely reason he was here, even if he didn't know _where_ he was yet. He wanted to collapse again and cry, or run somewhere, anywhere, yet he remained rooted to the spot, searching the shadows for something he didn't want to see.

…Maybe he was wrong. He hadn't been restrained in any fashion, and there was nobody around that he could see, yet… Still, his weak attempts at self-assurance were useless, for in his heart he already suspected he knew the truth.

Already he was beginning to shake, trembling as a chill not spurred by the dampness of his clothes set in. Absently Britain folded his arms over his chest, rubbing his hands over the moist sleeves, trying in vain not to let panic set in before he even confirmed what he feared.

"…Welcome back, 007."

Despite all his efforts, Britain still failed to detect anyone's presence before that hauntingly familiar voice whispered in his ear. Gasping, he spun about so sharply that his legs nearly gave out from underneath him, and he stumbled backwards, staring up into the skeletal grin that filled his vision.

"So, you see now what your petty rebellion has granted you," Black Ghost taunted, enjoying the horror-struck expression on the cyborg's face. "Already you've been broken, and your friends chose to abandon you, now that you're of no more use to their laughable cause."

(That's not true!) Britain screamed silently, though his mental protest went all but lost in the desperate litany his mind was already chanting: (This is a dream, it isn't real! If I stand perfectly still and don't react, maybe I'll wake up. Not real, I'm dreaming…)

But all his hopeless fantasies were dispelled as Black Ghost roughly seized his shoulder. Unlike the touch in his dream, this tormentor's hands were frigid, clamps of ice that dug into his sweater and chilled the skin underneath.

Black Ghost yanked him forward, and Britain couldn't keep himself from gasping as he stumbled. Pain blossomed not in his shoulder, but in his stomach, and he felt more clearly the pulling sensation of his skin clinging to the thick needle than he had the syringe's entrance.

Though paralysis swept through his body, Britain retained some awareness, and felt himself sag forward into his captor's waiting arms. Though blurring vision he gazed up at Black Ghost's ever present sneer, unable to close his eyes against the horrible sight.

"You needn't worry, cyborg," mocked Black Ghost. "You can rest certain that I will never abandon you. Soon, you will be fully repaired, and able to resume your original duties…"

Then he laughed, the sound echoing off unseen walls, while inwardly Britain wept.


	11. Frustration

__

Disclaimers are handily located back in the first chapter, easily accessible courtesy of your local browser 'back button' feature. You know, personally, I think Mimic falls more clearly under the category of 'sadistic witch' than 'evil Mary Sue', but you're free to use your own judgement on that…

~ * Frustration * ~

The Dolphin's engines were still, the former war machine resting silently in place. The massive craft bobbed ever so slightly, courtesy of the waters that cradled it. There was almost uneasiness in the way it seemed to hesitate, prior course forgotten in lieu of the latest crisis its crew faced. This sense was heightened by the miniscule figures that darted intermittently around its extensive hull, swimming in erratic, ever-widening arcs around the submarine, scouring their surroundings in vain.

Making his latest pass beneath the Dolphin, Pyunma came to a halt, splaying the fingers of his left hand absently against the curved underbelly of the ship while heaving a silent sigh. The aquatics expert shook his head slowly, resigned, even as his marine eyes swept the vast expanse of ocean stretching out before him.

(This is useless. There's just no sign of that new enemy or Black Ghost in general.)

The muscles in his hand clenched, involuntarily, dusky fingers pressing against the smooth, unyielding hull. Pyunma could feel his jaw tightening as well, teeth grinding behind tightly pursed lips.

So the Dolphin had been invaded -- breached by an enemy they knew next to nothing about, who then slipped from their grasp after finally being found out. But how long had they been there, waiting for an opportunity… hours? Days? A week, or even…?

All they knew for certain was that this new opponent was another cyborg, an assassin with the ability to shapeshift similar to one of their own -- only now Britain was missing as well. Kidnapped, if he understood Gilmore's words correctly -- the poor doctor had been frantic, struggling to establish some measure of order after the assassin's abrupt assault.

For now, he was supposed to be trying to find some clue as to where their uninvited guest had fled, some elusive key that would hopefully lead them to their missing member and some much-needed answers.

It was a lost cause. Though he'd rushed to get out into the water as quickly as possible after learning the assassin had gotten out, Pyunma was painfully aware that it was a little too late. There was no sign of the shapeshifter, and even though he'd scoured the area three times already, he'd yet to find some concrete clue to their whereabouts.

Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, it was obvious that the intruder was long gone -- taking with them the best chance of finding out what had happened to 007.

Logic dictated that, since there was little hope of tracking down their enemy in the middle of the ocean, he should return to the deck and start other lines of investigation. Had the intruder tampered with anything while onboard? The thought of some nasty little surprises tucked away inside discretely hacked programs sent shudders down his spine, unlikely a prospect as that seemed -- the Dolphin was a fine piece of work, with plenty of safeguards set up to prevent any such tampering.

…But then, they'd also thought it to be a safe haven from Black Ghost.

Instead of swimming over to the hatchway, however, Pyunma remained where he was, gazing out toward another cyborg engrossed in his own explorations several feet away. All of their team were outfitted with technology that allowed them to communicate so long as they were within a certain distance of each other, but even without checking through that the aquatics expert was easily able to identify his companion by observing his silhouette's movements.

The nearby searcher dropped down several feet, almost swooping toward a patch of gently waving undergrowth that he apparently decided moved in some suspicious fashion. Despite the distance, Pyunma was able to see how he dug through the seaweed, forcing it apart coarsely. After several seconds of fruitless mangling, he kicked upward and away from it, with nothing more to show for his efforts than a handful of tangled moss. He cast a glance at it, clearly disgusted, then shoved it to one side, letting the pitiful wreckage drift away to fade out of sight as he returned to scanning the area with harsh copper eyes.

Watching his teammate ascend, Pyunma imagined he could almost feel disgust and frustration rolling off the other cyborg's body in heated waves, palpable despite the distance and water separating them. So far he remained silent, having yet to hail any of his comrades with news or even a grumbled commentary, yet somehow Pyunma got the impression that didn't mean he wasn't muttering to himself.

Figuring he should be the one to break the silence before the storm he sensed brewing broke, Pyunma gathered his thoughts carefully.

["…Jet."]

He saw the other cyborg pause at the sound of his name, then pivot slowly and gaze toward the dark-skinned mariner. Pyunma didn't need a clear look at the American's face to picture how his bronze eyes smoldered in dangerous, narrow slits, wild red hair stirring in underwater currents.

If they weren't underwater, Jet would already be gone. Both were aware of that fact. If this invasion had occurred on land, the fire-tempered punk would be streaking through the sky in pursuit, leaving the others in his wake, to catch up when they could.

Jet had been right, of course -- or at least his words seemed wiser in light of this latest development. They'd attempted to lie low until they recovered from that last assault, only to discover the enemy another step ahead. Black Ghost knew where they were, sent another cyborg assassin after them, and Britain…

…Gone. Just like the illusion of safety they'd nurtured for the past two weeks. 

Jet had been right, but there wasn't anything remotely pleasant about that knowledge. The brash redhead wouldn't be strutting about proclaiming his superiority over the others for predicting correctly that they were making a major mistake.

It hadn't prevented this… this travesty from…

["…Let's make another sweep, just to be sure. Okay?"]

Pyunma tried to instill an optimism he didn't feel into his tone, fully aware it would do little to soothe the hawkish cyborg. Truthfully, his own words did little to comfort the combat specialist himself. The only reason he made the effort was because the entire mess weighed down enough as it was; he certainly didn't need to help by broadcasting his doubts to anyone else.

Jet remained strangely silent, but his head jerked once, the crest of his wild hair bobbing with his curt nod. Pushing away from the hull, Pyunma swam toward his teammate, resuming the search for their current equivalent to a nonexistent needle in a haystack.

~ * ~

The first gash ran diagonally along the slope of Francoise's back, a torn line from the top of her right shoulder down to the end of her left shoulderblade. The cut was uneven, deepening farther down, but through some small miracle none of her internal systems had been severely damaged -- or exposed.

Her other injury was considerably worse: her assailant tore completely through her right shoulder, practically driving through the fragile blonde in order to reach her original target. It had been close… Gilmore's left hand strayed to his throat, recalling how the sharpened tip fell just short of its target, enough that he'd scarcely dared to breathe, like that slight movement would pierce the skin.

Was it selfish, egocentric, to feel the slightest bit of relief that the intruder had not been able to reach him? The same attack that had left such a terrible wound in Francoise's back had been intended for him… he had been completely unaware… if it had hit, there was little chance he would have survived it…

Francoise had literally shielded him with her own body… His delicate little swan had nearly gotten killed, because he'd been too blind to recognize his own danger…

"…Doctor Gilmore?" Rippling aquamarine surfaces gazed worriedly at the scientist, as Francoise turned around on the cot she was seated on, legs folded primly beneath her.

Gilmore shook his head sharply. There was no time for self-loathing right now; better to work on fixing the results of the mistakes he'd made.

"…Ah, sorry about that, Francoise," he apologized, turning away. "I just have a lot on my mind right now. If you'll excuse me…"

"Of course, sir."

The pretty blonde averted her gaze to the floor, absently readjusting her loosened uniform, shrugging the part hanging off her injured shoulder back into place. Reaching back, she gingerly zipped up the back of her uniform, careful not to get the bandages swathing her chest caught in the fastener.

Her ruined scarf lay on the counter beside her bed; most of what remained was the length that rested around her neck, the ends that were supposed to trail behind having been cut short during her assault. Maybe it could be salvaged, but Francoise was tempted to just replacing it with one of her spares, and maybe buying a new one sometime.

She didn't need any mementos of that little scuffle.

Rising to her feet, she followed after the doctor, out of the room they used for single examinations into the larger infirmary. Gilmore was already occupied with another patient, but he nodded toward the girl, acknowledging her arrival.

"Are you alright, Francoise?" questioned Albert, straightening slightly where he sat in front of the scientist when he saw the blonde enter.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you," she replied, more automatically than anything, her gaze drifting not toward the silver-haired German but to the chestnut-maned boy on the cot beside him.

Joe couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, or even look up from his lap. His hands were pressed tightly together, his shoulders slumped, even his muffler seemed to hang limply around his neck, dangling off the edge of the bed like his legs.

Helplessly Francoise looked toward the others in the room, her gaze soon lingering on the pair sitting close to the exit. Chang balanced Ivan's bassinet in his lap, gently rocking the sleeping infant back and forth. She would have offered to relieve him of this duty, but recognized that the task was a much-needed distraction for the chef.

She couldn't bring herself to begrudge him that. She would simply have to do without for the time being.

Francoise wasn't the only one watching Chang tend to their youngest member. Albert didn't know whether he was more relieved or frustrated by the sight: relieved because he'd thought the fire-breather died at the assassin's hands, and yet frustrated for the exact same reason -- he'd fallen for the deception hook, line and sinker.

(I can't believe I fell for that! I should have known something was wrong… like how she'd caught him so easily. He didn't even look hurt or anything, just… frightened…)

Yes… he'd seen the terror in 'Chang's' eyes, and couldn't recognize it as fake. He hadn't picked up on how closely the stout cyborg was pressed against his captor's body, how he wasn't being held as firmly as you'd expect a hostage would be… All he'd seen was his friend in danger.

It's difficult to think clearly when somebody close to you is in trouble -- especially when the threat is right in front of you, not quite close enough to touch, to stop, but close enough to see.

…Good thing that it wasn't really Chang, considering how they'd failed to rescue him. The intruder had killed him right in front of the pair, never losing that sickening smile.

Fake or not, Albert knew the sight of the chef with a snapped neck would stay burned into his memory for a long time.

Across from the German, Joe continued his intense study of his wringing hands, downcast garnet eyes shining beneath the shadows of his thick bangs. Albert studied the younger cyborg's face surreptitiously, aware that his thoughts traveled in much the same circles.

…Not only had they failed to save their false comrade, but 007 also…

…He didn't want to say anything to the others, but, privately, Albert wondered about the likelihood of Britain being dead. Sure, the assassin's comment to Gilmore and Francoise appeared to imply that he'd been taken away, but this was an _assassin_ they were talking about, after all. She'd already deceived them before with her 'hostage' ploy… who was to say she wasn't lying then as well?

…No. Better to assume she was telling the truth, regardless of the circumstances. Until they could find proof one way or the other… if they found anything at all…

The doorway whispered open, allowing Geronimo to duck inside the room. The giant straightened once he crossed the threshold, allowing the portal to sweep shut behind him, aware of the scrutiny he immediately received from the others. Water dribbled down his uniform, and he moved quickly to join Chang before it could start pooling at his feet.

"Ah…" the chef began haltingly, looking up at the strongman as Geronimo took a seat beside him. "Did you…"

Glancing down at the shorter cyborg, Geronimo shook his head slowly, once, in the negative. A collective sigh, barely audible, seemed to echo through the suddenly quiet infirmary, everyone turning back to whatever tasks were before them, pretending they found sanctuary in them.

"002 and 008 are still searching," the Native American reported, more to break that awkward silence than to inform his comrades of where the pair was.

Chang bit the inside of his lip, staring down into the bassinet resting in his lap. Part of him wanted to go out and help, picking up where the giant beside him had left off, but that impulse was overridden by the sense that it would be a useless gesture. The three had been out there since the alarm ended, after they'd arrived to find Joe and Albert laid out on the floor and the intruder already gone.

If they hadn't found anything by now, then there was nothing to be found out there. That had to be why Geronimo had already returned: he figured out the truth and was simply waiting now to find out what their next move would be.

…What _could_ they do, anyway?

The intruder was gone… Joe, Albert and Francoise had all gotten hurt, but the repairs hopefully wouldn't take too long… Already the female cyborg was up and about, assisting Gilmore in checking over the others.

…G.B. was missing, presumed captured… replaced by that enemy shapeshifter… When?

(…Before… on the bridge… It makes sense, now, if that wasn't him, but… before that…)

Recalling when he'd checked on Britain in the infirmary… -- Had it really only been just hours ago? It seemed much longer, now, like it was just another part of some insane dream… -- Chang could picture his friend sitting alone, shoulders quaking, arms folded like he was holding himself together. He remembered the deer-caught-in-headlights look he'd received when he entered, the flash of terror on Britain's wan face before he turned away, like he thought he could hide his pain from the world just by turning his back on the others, literally if not figuratively…

(…I can't believe… that could have been…)

Shaking his head, Chang gazed at the sleeping Ivan and privately wondered how the child could look so peaceful at a time like this.

(Wake up!) he thought, furiously, not quite sure whether he was actually angry with the psychic for sleeping or not yet. (You always wake up when we really need your help -- we need you now! To try -- to try and find… find out if…)

Across the room, Joe raised his head just slightly, watching through the cover of his bangs while Chang grappled with his deteriorating self-control. The fire-breather bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut, face tightening with the effort of containing the sobs racking him from inside. As Joe looked on, Geronimo quietly laid one thick arm over the back of his companion's chair, a silent show of support.

His crimson gaze dropped back to the hands folded in his lap. Dimly, Joe was aware of other eyes resting upon him -- Albert sitting across from him, Gilmore, Francoise -- but couldn't bring himself to meet their sympathetic expressions.

(I failed them. I couldn't stop this from happening. I… failed…)

Bowing his head, he felt a burning in the corners of his eyes. Squeezing his interlaced fingers together, Joe resigned himself to the only course of action available to him… waiting.

Waiting for Pyunma and Jet to return… for the accusations to start flying… for the blame to fall on his shoulders for letting this happen. He was supposed to be the leader… he was supposed to be responsible for protecting everyone…

(…Some leader I am. This team's… falling apart…)

Maybe all Black Ghost had to do now was wait, too, he mused bitterly. Maybe the rebellion was all but finished. Was it possible to put the pieces back together when one of them was missing…?

~ * ~

"W-we'll get back to the base shortly," stammered the pathetic, sweating sack of worthless flesh trembling before her. It might have been almost amusing, if it hadn't been wasting her time.

"Shut up and drive."

"Y-yes, s-si…ma'a…s-sir…"

Flustered, the hapless grunt spun back around in his seat and bent over the controls, gripping the lever in front of him so tightly he almost feared it would snap right in two. He definitely didn't want to find out how his passenger might react if that happened; but at the same time, loosening his hold might also prove a mistake, if she judged he was neglecting his duty.

She… he? …It? -- Mimic. The shapeshifter. The cyborg sitting behind him -- the demon he shared this cramped transporter with.

All he knew for certain about the cyborg's appearance was its… her? -- its eyes. Pale eyes, not quite green, not quite yellow, definitely creepy to have fixated on his back, drilling holes though his suddenly flimsy-seeming armor, into his clammy skin. It was impossible to ignore them, impossible to ignore her… same side or not, he felt like a mouse getting sized up by a cat.

The shapeshifter had boarded not too long ago, and instead of staying in the back of the craft choose to come up front, tucking itself away in a corner. She'd deactivated the lights before coming in, so that he never got a clear look -- did he really want to see? He'd tried looking at first, and sorely regretted it now, now that he'd seen the color of those horrible eyes…

When he'd glanced back, Mimic looked like a darker patch of shadows gathered in the seat, accentuated by those pale green-yellow eyes that practically glowed in the dim lighting. Even creepier was how her silhouette seemed to shift, miniscule twitches of change rippling along the edges of her seated figure, making his skin crawl just watching.

All of a sudden, his helmet felt too large and bulky on his head, his standard-issue uniform too flimsy and ineffective. He couldn't shake the feeling that, if it suited the cyborg, she could snap his neck in a second.

(…Does she even need me piloting? Doesn't she know the way to the base herself…?)

Shivering, doing a miserable job of keeping his fear controlled, he leaned further over his station and went about his work, keenly aware of the shapeshifter's burning stare.

Mimic observed the sweat trickling down the man's exposed throat; she imagined those heavy uniforms were good at trapping heat and body odor. His nervousness was almost amusing -- indeed, that was why she bothered with this little display, shifting her entire body to a dark black hue and keeping to the shadows, making tiny adjustments that resulted in her skin 'rippling'.

(Why does Black Ghost insist on keeping humans around, anyway? They're so…) She cast about in vain for a term that adequately expressed her disgust before finally settling, reluctantly, on the tried-and-true (…weak.)

Though it couldn't really be observed thanks to her latest disguise, Mimic's lips tightened together in a thin grimace. Perhaps her commander had an affinity for gathering the weak and the powerless. It would help to explain some of his stranger decisions…

Her words to the pathetic scientist who worked with the traitors and his equally wretched would-be protector came back to her: (…I shipped your broken shapeshifter off to be fixed…)

…She had not lied. That was her master's intention: to repair 007 and return him to his original function as one of his soldiers.

(…But why?! He already has an improved model: me! I'm the superior one! Why waste time on a broken-down cyborg?)

Peridot eyes flared in the self-imposed shadows. Ebony skin rippled dangerously. Her already spooked escort cast a frightened glance back at her, gulped, and turned back to stare wide-eyed at the ocean, willing his violently thumping heart to stay in his chest.

Mimic could be patient. She could wait until they arrived at the base before looking for a satisfactory answer. She was not stupid enough to ask Black Ghost outright, even as her anger festered within the same way her skin twisted on the surface.

But there were other ways to find the explanations she sought, and Mimic resolved to track them down, no matter how long it took… or who she had to hurt in order to find them.

It was only Black Ghost himself that she couldn't confront to get what she wanted, after all. All others… all others were fair game…

~ * ~

"…I'm not seeing what I want to see, doctor."

Doctor Williamson mopped his brow with a handkerchief, ignoring that the fabric was already sweat-soaked. Wringing the cloth in his hands absently, he temporized, "Y-yes, well, as I said before, my colleagues and I suspect that…"

"Suspect. Hah. What do you _know_, Williamson?"

(Ack…) It was never encouraging to hear the commander call someone by name, especially when it was your own. Especially using that particular tone of voice. The tissue met Williamson's brow again.

"…F-fine." He cleared his throat with a meek little cough, then turned to face his station, fingers finding the keys mostly thanks to familiarity. "The subject was previously injected with the virus in its original form, with the intention of overriding all functions pertaining to the control and execution of the transformation ability…"

"Yes, I know all that already." Golden eyes flashed. "Get to the point."

"O-of course. Ah… we b-believed that another injection of the virus would be enough to return him to that state, bu-but…"

"It isn't working. Why?"

"W-we don't know, sir. We're not even certain what disabled it b-before, so… Perhaps they created a vaccine, or…"

"Bah!" The fist slammed against the countertop with the force of a thunderclap, making his minions jump and scatter -- all save the scientist cowering before him, who jumped in place with a little, choked-off gasp. "Guesswork again!"

Williamson whimpered, dilated pupils darting about, searching for any sign of salvation, anything he could bring up to dull the blaze igniting in his commander's bulbous gaze. However, all his roaming gaze found to fixate upon was the restrained figure on the pallet on the other side of the equipment. There was no hope to be found there -- the very source of his master's growing impatience.

His coworkers were proving useless as well -- nobody wanted to risk drawing Black Ghost's attention and wrath to themselves. They scurried around pretending to be completely engrossed in their own tasks, as if they didn't notice their fuming master standing in their midst.

"W…well… we can always try administering the version we used in Mimic's creation…" he offered at length without much hope.

"Don't waste my time."

Williamson swallowed hard, mopping his forehead again with his handkerchief. No real surprise there, really, that Black Ghost sensed his doubt that such a maneuver would help. After all, they'd altered the virus considerably for that project; it didn't exactly apply for their intentions here…

"We'll move on." Black Ghost's voice was low, threatening… was the undercurrent of hatred in his voice meant for the subject or the scientists? "We'll use the back-up measures for now… but I expect to see some sort of progress on determining why this didn't work as intended, Williamson."

"…Y…yes, sir…"

The commander gave no sign of hearing his lackey's stammered response, yet Williamson had no doubt that he would return to collect what he'd requested. As his superior officer swept past, the trailing edge of his distinctive cape flaring grandly behind him and nearly striking the trembling scientist in the face, Williamson instinctively recoiled backwards, watching his boss intently, half-expecting him to lash out himself.

Despite his fears, the doctor was spared for the moment. Black Ghost's attention was temporarily elsewhere.

A few flowing strides carried him effortlessly to the tableside, allowing him a better view of the patient strapped down upon it -- and, more importantly to the cloaked villain, enabling his patient to see him standing there.

The paralyzing agent he'd injected prototype 007 with kept the cyborg from moving freely, but wasn't designed to render its victims completely unconscious. It simply dampened the body's ability to respond, making any movements he managed sluggish and ineffectual.

There was still a certain degree of awareness retained in the cyborg's eyes, however. Towering over his captive, Black Ghost noted how the Englishman's dark brown pupils focused on him and dilated slightly, his face twitching in what might have been called a flinch if he'd been capable of putting any more expression into it.

Reaching out, he ran a hand over the cyborg's chest, deftly avoiding the wires attached here and there... though he deliberately clipped one, just to see the same near-flinch play over 007's numb features.

"Soon enough, 007," he murmured, enjoying the sorrow in the cyborg's wonderfully expressive eyes. It would only be a matter of time before he would lose even that. "You'll come around soon enough…"


	12. Modification

__

The usual disclaimers can be found back in the first chapter's header. I apologize for my bluntness in last chapter's notes; I didn't mean to sound offended or upset anyone. …Which is kind of a strange thing to say before this particular section, but…

~ * Modification * ~

The stealth-rigged transport slid into its dock without a hitch, engines whining to a halt. Its pilot quickly secured the vessel before all but bolting out into the hangar, relieved beyond words that terrifying trip had finally come to an end.

No more inhuman eyes drilling into the back of his skull! No more creepy cyborg chick insisting on keeping all the nonessential lights out on board so she could sit in the shadows!

…It was a pity lowly soldiers like him weren't allowed to wear anything other than armor while on base. The edict was supposed to help keep them prepared in the event those pesky rebels attacked: nobody wanted to be caught with their pants down. Really, though, the rule was more an annoyance than anything else, but… a decree was still a decree, and defying their commander wasn't exactly common practice, no matter how inane the orders.

Even so, he might have been a bit tempted to strip off the sweaty uniform if he hadn't known that Black Ghost was paying special attention to this base, thanks to this latest project. As it was, the grunt decided he could deal with it.

There weren't any major rules against having a cold one or three, however, and the soldier eagerly headed off toward the nearest mess hall, more than ready for some downtime.

Mimic hung back in the small vessel, still in her 'creepy dark figure' guise, surreally darkened skin blending in well with the shadows cast by the side of the docked ship. Pale peridot eyes swept from side to side, taking in the workers scattered about the indoor harbor.

Though it was difficult to tell, Mimic was frowning thoughtfully. The lone soldier's fear had been amusing enough, in its own mild fashion, but she had no real longing to discover what kind of panic her current appearance might raise with these rabble. However, she certainly was not about to walk around untransformed: while the brief relaxation of her powers was tempting, the concept of allowing such lowlifes to glimpse her real form disgusted the shapeshifter.

After a moment's contemplation, she hit upon a solution, and closed her eyes, picturing the change mentally. Ebony skin rippled and stretched; her chest broadened and flattened, adopting a dull green hue, just as the rest of her features became coarser, sharper.

When she finished, Mimic was indistinguishable from the bulky, mass-produced robots that supplemented Black Ghost's forces. The only discernable difference was that this android's eyes flashed green-yellow afterwards. One final adjustment on her part, however, shifted their hue to the typical white blankness.

Confident now that her appearance wouldn't raise any alarms, Mimic set off in search of her commander. She was aware that Black Ghost was somewhere inside the sprawling base, no doubt engrossed in his latest project… It was only a matter of tracking him down. She'd already narrowed down the list during the ride back, and had some good ideas on where to start.

(…The laboratories where I received my training should have the sort of equipment required for… rehabilitation.)

Though her stolen features were immobile and blunt, inwardly Mimic sneered. Still the mere concept of Black Ghost wasting his time and effort repairing a broken cyborg stymied her.

Why? Why bother with such an obviously defective creature? 007 was one of the accursed traitors, an unfortunate impediment to furthering the syndicate's cause.

…Even taking the rebellion's weaknesses, their laughable concern for each other's welfare, into account, Mimic couldn't fully comprehend her master's actions. If this was part of a plot to use their silly emotional attachments against them, then why the talk of repairing 007? Wouldn't he make just as effective a hostage disabled -- or dead? It wasn't as if the rebellion would learn of his 'unfortunate demise' before they were lured to their own destruction…

…At least, that was how Mimic would be playing this hand, had she gotten any say in the matter.

…But, it was not her place to decide how matters were handled. That was entirely up to Black Ghost.

In the temporary privacy of the hallway, Mimic abruptly ground to a halt. Stealing a quick glance around to ensure that no blundering grunts might witness her actions, she nodded to herself, then swiftly changed, body shrinking and contracting until she hit the ground on all four feet.

The rat darted into the comfort of the shadows, beady yellow-green eyes glinting in the dim light as it took off. This form, Mimic judged, would serve her purposes just as well: its dusky fur blended in well with the darkened corridors, and was compact enough to open up plenty of alternate passages, pathways simple humans couldn't travel as quickly or easily.

Now, to find her master -- and, perhaps, take advantage of his assumed preoccupation with his latest scheme to gather information, learn more about his plans for her pathetic precursor. Perhaps she might be able to better understand his reasoning, then, and come to appreciate it more…

~ * ~

Williamson didn't pretend to understand his commander's rationale. Or, perhaps more accurately, he wasn't very good at pretending to comprehend his superior's surreal lines of thinking.

He knew better than to dare publicly question what Black Ghost was thinking. Far better -- and safer -- to simply follow orders, keeping all doubts to himself.

Still, privately, he wondered at the reasoning behind his latest commands. He gamely followed along, and for a while had thought he understood… thought he could see where he was supposed to be going with this. But now, he'd been completely thrown off.

"Unseal it."

Despite his better judgement, Williamson risked casting a curious glance over at his commander even while keying in the command. Had Black Ghost changed his mind on how they were handling prototype 007? Why else would they go through all the trouble of setting this up, only to be told to shut things off again…?

There was no answer to be found in his commander's permanent sneer. His golden gaze was fixated straight ahead, watching, waiting to see the result of their efforts.

Shaking his head slightly, Williamson turned back to his terminal and finished typing the command, hoping matters would make more sense soon enough. This job was nerve-wracking enough even when Black Ghost wasn't giving such strange orders.

Fully aware of the scientist's doubts, Black Ghost suppressed the urge to address the man, or any other of the confused coworkers that huddled around their terminals like sheep. Admonishments for their doubts could come afterward, if this left him in a sour mood. They were fortunate: punishment would have arrived more swiftly and certainly had any of them so much as breathed a word of their doubts aloud.

Now, however, it was time to focus on the task at hand: hastening along the rehabilitation of prototype 007. Chuckling coldly to himself, Black Ghost stared into the adjacent room and waited.

~ * ~

At some point the world had faded completely, as whatever had been keeping Britain in his semi-conscious state lost its grip and enabled him to slip into sweet oblivion. His already dampened senses had blurred to the point where he couldn't distinguish voices -- not that he recognized any beyond the one he knew all too well, the one that stood out most clearly among the cacophony and added its cruel undercurrent even after words faded into dull static.

Light and color and motion had all gradually blurred together as well, before the last vestiges of comprehension finally fell away. The last image he vaguely remembered, despite all feeble efforts on his part to banish it from memory, was of bulging yellow eyes leering down from overhead, a blotch of darkness against the searing glare of overhead lights.

Then, nothing -- a blank stretch of which there was no judging of even how much time had been lost.

By this point, Britain hardly even cared that there was nothing to fill that void. Though there was a slight stirring of discomfort in the pit of his stomach at the displacement -- how much time had he lost? -- it was overpowered by indescribable relief that, for once, there were no dreams.

But now that blessed grace period was drawing to a close, horrible cognizance trickling back into his mind, dragging him back to reality.

His eyes opened to blurry, smothering pink translucence.

Feeling returned in stages, fuzzily; there was the vaguest sensation of being suspended, almost floating… not quite in liquid, but certainly far from solid. All that helped ground him in reality as he drifted between comprehension and obliviousness were the pinpricks of pain he was becoming aware of, in his wrists, his ankles, the back of his neck…

Most distressing, however, was the mask he felt clamped over his mouth and nose, and the faintest rush of air over the covered area, forcing itself inside his body along with he could only begin to imagine…

Thoughts of poison and paralyzing agents stirred him into action. At first he could barely move: there was nothing holding him down that he could feel, the pricks of pain here and there were hardly enough to constitute serious bonds, but his movement was arrested by something else entirely.

The off-color translucence wasn't just above him, it was all around, smothering, stifling, irritating his eyes until he had to squeeze them shut. Feeling tears already starting to build behind closed eyelids, Britain thrashed blindly, knowing only that he wanted up, wanted _out…_

One of his kicks, a desperate attempt to free himself, found the edge of whatever he was floundering in, and by using that as leverage he soon discerned which way was up. With a burst of effort he pushed upward, and the moment he felt himself break out of the surface both flailing hands shot to grip the thing covering the lower half of his face. Tearing it off, Britain gasped, gulping in fresh, untainted air.

Instinctively he sought the edge of the container, groping around blindly until one hand closed around the side, then pulled himself up against it and clung there, panting. He felt the goop he'd been trapped inside rolling down off the exposed parts of his body, though he was still mostly submerged in the tank.

Brushing it clear of his eyes with the back of his free hand, Britain blinked rapidly, struggling to gather his wits before doing anything else.

One good thing about that mask, he realized belatedly while clinging to the edge of the container, his body racked with coughs: it kept that gunk out of his mouth. Still, that was hardly comforting when he could still feel it clinging to his skin, rolling down in rivulets.

Even though the substance was odorless, his stomach still churned dizzily, and it was all he could do to hang onto the side and not fall right back into the gel. At length, he managed to get his feet underneath him, and waited for some measure of balance to return before even attempting to climb out.

When he finally moved to stand, shakily, Britain wondered if his legs could still support him. Even anchored in the peach-tinted gel they trembled; it felt as if all the strength had been drained from the lower half of his body, leaving it numb, useless…

…Or maybe it was just an aftereffect of the slimy substance. At any rate, Britain wasn't about to spend any longer in that tank than necessary, not when the only thing he knew for certain about this stuff was that it made him want to pass out.

With a faint groan of effort, he pushed upward; the gel only came up to his waist after he stood, settling placidly as his weight shifted. Swinging one leg over the edge carefully, then following quickly with the other, Britain stepped thankfully out of the slime. Still hanging onto the tank's wall for support, he took in his surroundings while waiting for his stomach to settle.

The laboratory was dimly lighted; a few bulbs recessed into the walls here and there were on, casting gray shadows across the rest of the chamber. The steel-plated walls were surprisingly bare. Looking back at the container he leaned against, Britain noticed the thickness of the base, how the wiring that had been hooked up inside extended downward. Apparently the monitoring equipment was stationed elsewhere, though unless he missed his guess, it had to be somewhere nearby…

One other oddity about the tank was the fact that, while there was a sheet that clearly fastened over the top, it was hanging off to one side. If it had been fastened in place, there was no way he could have gotten out… Nightmarish impressions of awakening to find himself sealed inside the prison, pounding against the walls danced though his mind, and Britain quickly forced them aside, trying to concentrate on more important matters, like finding a way out of this terrible place.

Surveying the featureless walls, Britain found his gaze traveling upward, until he found himself staring at the high, rounded ceiling. Strange: the dome looked as if it was a single pane of glass, though undoubtedly reinforced somehow. There was something familiar about the sight, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and had no intention of waiting around until he figured it out.

Spotting a section of the wall that looked off, a slightly upraised panel about the correct dimensions to possibly be a door, Britain took a shaky step forward, then fell awkwardly back against the tank. The floor was slick, and it just seemed his luck that he'd automatically find a nice patch of gel to slip upon…!

…But then again, considering how he'd been floating in the goop, not to mention how it still clung uncomfortably to his skin, maybe it wasn't surprising some had puddled around his feet.

Looking down to determine where it was safe to step, Britain choked back a gasp as he belatedly noticed his attire. His still-addled mind had yet to grasp before that point that he was dressed differently (probably just as well, a part of his mind that wasn't reeling in confusion noted, since this disgusting goop probably wouldn't come out of wool easily…).

Instead, a dark bodysuit clung to his frame like a second skin, padded mostly by gel that had seeped right through the fabric. It was especially tight around his chest and stomach, where thin yellow piping that ran the length of his ribs broke up the otherwise stark ebony field. He couldn't pick out any discernable seams; they ran down the length of his legs and feet without any sign of where they could be removed.

Trembling, Britain brought his right hand up where he could see it, steadying himself against the container with his other. The black fabric stretched up to cover the back of his hands and fingers, but, oddly enough, when he turned it around he found that the tips of his fingers and palms were uncovered. It was the only readily apparent break in the uniform, and Britain automatically moved to grab the edge, trying to pull it loose.

No sooner did his fingers close over the sleeve, however, than the outfit abruptly constricted, strangling his gasp as blazing agony swept through his veins. Slamming back against the container, he clawed blindly at his neck -- the collar was tightened, and he could barely breathe --

"That wasn't a very bright move, cyborg 007." A patronizing voice cut through the haze, recognizable even as pain racked his body. "You shouldn't tamper with your uniform, it could set back your recovery considerably."

The sharp, stabbing pain subsided enough that Britain was able to move again, though he could barely manage to lift his head enough to see the ebony-cloaked figure standing only a few feet away. Choking, pressing his back against the tank for support, he tried to stand, only to find another slick spot and fall back to a crouch, knees banging painfully against the floor.

A low, amused chuckle burned his ears, and Britain fought the tears building in his eyes, acutely aware how weak he looked. Not even able to stand, aching body protesting each feeble attempt at movement, the last thing he wanted to do was give Black Ghost any more satisfaction.

The commander swept closer: to Britain's fevered perception Black Ghost appeared to all but glide toward him, unaffected by the puddles of gel splashed across the tiled floor. Scrabbling for purchase, he found himself flush against the tank, the reinforced glass ice against his back.

He was hemmed in. There was quite simply nowhere to run: even if he had been able to stand, let alone move, Black Ghost blocked the only potential exit. He couldn't get past or hope to defend himself, not with his powers disabled…

"You should be grateful; all of this was set up for your rehabilitation," Black Ghost indicated the chamber with a grandiose sweep of his arm. Golden eyes glinting in the dim light, he went on, "In fact, your new uniform is actually part of your physical therapy."

Britain choked, unable to form words quite yet. But his confusion must have shown in his eyes, in the way he stared at the sneering figure, for Black Ghost nodded curtly, almost to himself.

"Allow me to demonstrate…"

And then the wrenching agony was back, and Britain crumpled, folding over as his body seemed to burst aflame. It felt like a thousand tiny needles had shot from the uniform, piercing every inch of covered skin. His lips gaped in a silent scream, the only sound escaping a strangled wail.

It couldn't have lasted more than a minute, yet each second that passed only heightened the misery, and when it ended he slumped to the floor, completely spent, scarcely able to pull air into his lungs. Over the rasp of his own labored breathing, the dull roar in his ears, he picked up on another low chuckle coming from his tormentor.

"This is a crucial step to your recovery," sneered the dark figure, moving closer until he towered over the pitifully shaking cyborg. "Your transformation ability was not destroyed by the virus; it's simply been disabled. You could control it -- or, rather, we could restore your ability to control it manually, but, for now, we have a more effective alternative."

Cold, muscular hands propped him up against the tank; Britain let out a quiet whine at the unwelcome touch, but could barely twitch in response, let alone squirm away. A frigid palm cupped the left side of his face, forcing his head to turn until his fog-trimmed gaze rested on his right arm, laying limp at his side.

"Watch," commanded the cold voice that seemed to come from all around him.

Again paralyzing pain gripped his body, only this time only his arm was affected. Britain felt his pupils shrink slightly, and he watched in mute, numb terror as the limb changed in shape, pain-gripped muscles contracting and mutating into a crude, clawed monstrosity.

"Effective, yes?" mock-queried the taunting voice. "Of course, it would be so much easier if you would just cooperate, but I'm certain you'll come around soon enough…"

(…because you have no choice,) the implied continuation of that comment remained unspoken, finished only in Britain's horrified thoughts.

A bare whimper escaped his parted lips, and instinctively he withdrew into himself, or tried to. But his body refused to respond, already worn and exhausted by the bouts of agony forced upon it. His transmuted arm reverted, the tingles of sensation soon fading back into the same anesthetize that held the rest of his body in check.

He couldn't move… hurt too much to move, anyway, hurt too much to think. Not that there was any way out of this that he could see, even if his head wasn't already throbbing, a distracting pounding brought on by those seizures.

Two fingertips brushed his chin, pushing his head up until he was staring up at his enemy's grinning visage. Britain was keenly aware of the tears trickling down his otherwise numb cheeks: just another failure on his part.

He couldn't do even the simplest thing to defy Black Ghost. There was nothing…

"You're beginning to understand. Good." There was a glint of something in his tormentor's right hand; a syringe that he laid against the exposed skin of the shapeshifter's wrist. "Rest, now. We'll continue your reeducation soon."

That promise followed him into the void, his descent preceded by the tiniest prick on his skin. Britain succumbed willingly to the drug, eager to escape back into the dreamless oblivion he had found sanctuary in before…

Black Ghost watched in satisfaction as the light dimmed from the cyborg's wide eyes, the brown pupils glossing over as his body went completely limp. Good: he had seen the growing comprehension in the shapeshifter's expression, the shreds of foolish hope falling away.

That understanding was crucial to the project's success. Prototype 007 had to be convinced of the simple truth that there was no salvation. All that was left for the cyborg was returning to his intended duties.

The pathetic rebellion had no chance of destroying this plan. Even if they had developed some sort of vaccine to combat the virus, it would be useless now. It was the suit itself that compelled 007's transformations now.

True enough that it was a crude system, with more than its share of flaws: there would no be full-body transformations so long as the suit alone was doing the work. But the simplistic forms that could be achieved -- the blunt weaponry -- would suffice for the time being.

It was only a matter of time before they found a more permanent, flexible alternative -- and by then, 007 should have come to accept his place in the organization. After all, he had no choice… not that he ever had…

Hefting the shapeshifter's comatose form in his arms, Black Ghost set him back into the container, deftly re-securing the breathing mask over his face, reattaching the wires monitoring his condition to their proper positions. The translucent gel slid off his clothes easily, without leaving so much as a film in their wake, enabling him to work quickly and efficiently.

When finished, he stepped backward, allowing the cover to slide back into place and reseal the tank. Studying the slight figure suspended back in the tank, Black Ghost once again chuckled lowly to himself, pleased.

Everything was proceeding nicely. Once 007 had recovered sufficiently from this lesson, the next session could begin. His reeducation needed to be spurred along, however, if they wanted to have him adequately prepared for the rebellion's arrival.

And the fools would come, given the proper bait… once he deigned to let them discover his location. They would come for the sake of their 'friend', hoping to rescue him… such a insipid, worthless sentiment, but well-suited to his cause. 

As his cruel laughter rose in pitch, he failed to notice a slight movement from above, as a shadow near the domed ceiling withdrew back into the ventilation shaft.

The dark-furred rat scrambled away, followed by the echo of Black Ghost's cackling. It was only after it got far enough away from that hideous sound that the creature dropped out of the shaft into a darkened, abandoned room.

A shudder ran through the rapidly expanding figure, and in the space of a breath the rat was replaced by a crouching, dark-haired woman who stared straight ahead with pale eyes.

Slowly her peridot gaze tracked down to her hands, drawn to the only exposed flesh on her frame other than her head. The rest of her body was clad in a form-fitting jumpsuit, ebony shot through with yellow-gold over the slope of her chest.

The exact same type of attire that Mimic had seen her counterpart dressed in.

She remained there, glaring down in grim silence at her upturned hands, for a long period of time.


	13. Preparation

__

As before, the disclaimers are back in the first chapter.

~ * Preparation * ~

Silence hung over the Dolphin like a shroud, bleak and suffocating. The former warcraft remained where it had stopped hours before, simply because there was nowhere to go. It wasn't as if the crew had no destination in mind: in truth, they knew exactly where they wanted to be headed, exactly what they wanted -- no, needed -- to be doing.

Unfortunately, nobody had any idea where to go.

This was not as huge a discrepancy as it sounded. The 00-team wanted to start off in search of their missing member, but had no clue where 007 was. Sure, they understood that Britain must have been taken to one of Black Ghost's bases, but which one? How far away was it, where was it hidden, how could they get inside…?

Nobody on board even had the slightest idea which direction it was in, and that was why the massive ship stayed where it was, ponderous and awkward.

While several steps had been taken to ensure the craft wasn't completely defenseless -- its radar scrambling systems were working perfectly, its hull prepared for any assault, its crew already working in shifts to ensure they wouldn't be caught off guard -- they were fully aware it had already been compromised. Black Ghost knew exactly where they were.

It almost seemed like the Dolphin was waiting to be attacked. To some degree, perhaps that was true: it wasn't as if there was much they could really accomplish at this point except wait for their enemy to make its next move.

There were precious few moves they could make at this juncture -- and what should have been one of their most significant and possibly vital moves was unfortunately unavailable at the moment.

Ivan still hadn't woken up.

It was understandable, Doctor Gilmore had stated. The telepath had exerted himself a considerable amount during the previous crisis with Britain. He'd used his powers to destroy the virus controlling the shapeshifter, something the scientist hadn't thought possible.

But then, there was a great deal he'd thought impossible in the past only to be proven wrong… some of those revelations being considerably less pleasant than others.

There was no need to panic, Gilmore had insisted. Sometimes it was surprisingly easy for them to forget that, for all of 001's cerebral capability, he was still just a baby. He needed rest to replenish his abilities, and after what he had accomplished before, who could judge how much longer it would take?

They must remain patient, Gilmore had soothed. It was impossible to rush Ivan's recovery. Even if they were capable of rousing the infant from his sleep, did they really have the right? There was no telling what effect that might have, especially if he was more drained than they thought.

All they could do, the doctor had sighed, was wait and prepare in the meantime. Ivan always woke up when he was needed most, he reminded everyone. They had to trust in him, and spend whatever time that passed in the meantime getting ready for the coming confrontation.

And there would be a battle, of that there was no doubt. There was no telling exactly when and where it would take place -- or even what exactly they would have to face, or who they would have to fight… but it was coming. It was only a matter of time.

So it was not particularly strange, despite the late hour, that one of the cyborgs was working out inside the training room, instead of monitoring the bridge or resting, or trying to rest, like the other members of the rebellion.

The lights were turned down, and in the dimmed chamber shadows danced and darted in distorted mimicry of his movements. Occasionally, the silhouettes sharpened, becoming clearer as he swung at the air, but this shadowplay went unobserved.

The blazing copper eyes saw only his phantom opponents, along with other things that added fury to each thrown punch, every tense jerk of his limber body.

Patience was not Jet's forte. He had never claimed to have much of the so-called virtue to spare -- really, didn't claim to have it at all. True, he could tell when it was a good idea to hold back or hold off -- sometimes -- but that didn't mean he particularly _liked_ it or _wanted_ to, not if he could help it…

He hadn't wanted to hide in the ocean for two weeks and counting following the incident with 007 and the virus from hell, but he couldn't help that.

He'd wanted, sorely, to give G.B. one good whack over the head and force him to see that nobody blamed him for what happened, but the others wouldn't let him.

He'd wanted to find Black Ghost and/or whoever was _really_ responsible for the whole virus escapade and beat the ever-living crap out of them -- and blow up the base for good measure -- but didn't know where they were, and nobody let him go off to actually _look_.

He wanted that simple privilege more than ever now that they'd discovered a spy on board -- a spy that had gotten away, damnit! -- and learned one of their own was gone. But, still, he was refused.

Jet wasn't completely blind to why. He understood the reasons, and while they added furor to each vehement swipe he took at the blank space before him, Jet also had to admit, privately, that it made sense. Unfair sense, but sense all the same.

If they went charging off half-cocked into the unknown, it would only hurt matters. Blind anger wasn't going to guide them to wherever Britain was being held now; it wasn't going to help them deal with this new shapeshifter and whatever else Black Ghost had in store for them; it wasn't going to fix things. All it would be was a waste of time and energy.

Doctor Gilmore had said to be patient. Wait for Ivan to wake up. Have patience… patience…

…Patience had landed them in this situation in the first place.

A particularly vicious swing, and Jet spun on his feet, following the momentum of the punch and letting it carry him in a half-circle before lashing out with his other fist. Glaring into the gloom of the sparsely lighted chamber, he formed a picture of an opponent in his mind's eye: a blotch of onyx, sickly white smile and laughing golden eyes bright against the gray backdrop…

A low growl resounded deep in his throat, and the redhead's next punch shattered the skull of his imaginary adversary, quickly followed by a series of increasingly violent blows to the empty space that remained.

Anything was better than picturing who they were more likely to face, when Black Ghost finally made his next move. Just because Jet had accepted that possibility -- heck, more of a probability, a coldly logical next step -- didn't mean he had to acknowledge it right now.

…Having to fight Britain, if or when it came to that, was better left to bitter reality. For now, Jet preferring fantasizing about pounding Black Ghost directly.

Eventually, exhaustion from the day's events would finally catch up with the aerial specialist, and he would have to succumb to sleep. But until that point, he would spend every scrap of energy he had left training, beating up shadows in a futile attempt to ease the frustration gnawing away inside.

~ * ~

Williamson held a certain amount of respect for Doctor Gilmore.

His regard for the rouge scientist was a closely guarded secret, one he never committed to writing or recording in any form, since that could only be turned against him should anyone else discover it. It remained locked away in his most private of thoughts, never spoken aloud, never entrusted to anyone else, for it wasn't as if his peers were the most honorable fellows.

It wasn't born from any sort of admiration on how the doctor had escaped when he did, taking so many samples of the syndicate's most powerful technology along. In truth, there were actually several accounts and rumors what exactly the relationship was between Gilmore and the 00-team: whose idea the escape had been, which ones were more willing than others, how they had managed it and so on.

There were several of his colleagues who still subscribed to the 'abduction' theory: Gilmore had been strong-armed into aiding the cyborgs in their escape. According to them, the scientist was kept mainly as insurance, reduced to little more than a tool that could repair them if they got injured.

Yet that theory didn't quite explain why the cyborgs hadn't figured out by now how to work their own repairs and rid themselves of their human baggage.

That was why Williamson didn't subscribe to that explanation, and a large part of why he retained so much respect for his rouge comrade. In his estimation, the elderly man was very brave… not simply for trying to flee the Black Ghost, trying to resist his plans, but also for remaining with the cyborgs for all this time.

It completely mystified him, for he couldn't understand why Gilmore wasn't scared stiff of his creations.

Williamson definitely couldn't say the same. The product of his latest project, the cyborg codenamed 'Mimic', had a habit of completely petrifying him.

Even now, sealed away inside her tank for recovery, she unnerved him. Though her compartment was of the same make as the one 007 had been confined to, the equipment exactly the same, seeing the former rebel in the same position hadn't inspired the same sort of unease he felt now, watching the cyborg he'd helped design rest.

Maybe it was because he didn't get the same impression of vulnerability. After all, from what he understood, prototype 007 was hardly able to defend himself anymore, thanks to the aftereffects of their commander's previous scheme. Remembering the earlier display the rebel shapeshifter had given, when Black Ghost decided to demonstrate the capabilities of his new uniform prematurely, Williamson mused that perhaps it wasn't so strange that he didn't feel threatened by his presence.

But Mimic hardly looked helpless, even suspended in the translucent gel with wires attached to her body. Perhaps that was because it was a familiar position, one he'd seen her in since her creation.

Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that he was about to disturb her slumber. Black Ghost had just requested the female shapeshifter's presence: the next stage of the plan was about to begin, and he wanted them as witnesses to his triumph.

Unlike the area set up for 007's containment, the equipment that controlled the tank was placed in the same room: partly for closer observation, and partly due to space constrictions in the laboratory. Williamson definitely would have been more comfortable observing her awakening from a safer distance, but, unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it.

Black Ghost was waiting on them.

That helped spur the scientist into action more than anything else, and he rapidly entered the codes that unsealed the tank. As the top detached and slid to one side, carried by a motorized railing, Mimic immediately began to stir. Though a mask was fitted over her nose and mouth for breathing purposes, no drugs were used to help keep her under control. She got in and out of her own free will.

Pale green eyes flashed open, and wires pulled free unnoticed as the shapeshifter got to her feet with a fluid grace her counterpart hadn't displayed. Of course, Mimic was far from disoriented or confused by her surroundings.

Unerringly her gaze slid to where Williamson stood quaking at his post, her body swiveling to face him. The scientist was immensely relieved by the tiny detail that the machines helped conceal most of his body from her at this angle, for his knees all but knocked together at the sight.

The cyborg's dark hair hung in thick, glossy locks glued close to her scalp courtesy of the slime. The peach substance dripped from her plastered bangs and into her face, yet she didn't so much as flinch as it trickled down her exposed skin. Her bodysuit, slick from the same gel, glistened in the stark light.

"Bl…Black Ghost requires your attendance, cyborg Mimic," he forced a measure of authority into his voice, mentally cursing himself at his slight stumble. "In Training Hall 412."

"…Understood."

Mimic nodded once, curtly, and stepped out of the tank. She crossed the laboratory to the doorway, then paused there and looked back toward the scientist, expectantly.

"Coming?"

It was not so much a question as a command. Swallowing hard to relieve the lump in his throat, Williamson nodded quietly. He wasn't certain, but he almost thought he caught Mimic's lips spreading into a thin smirk when she turned away.

In a perfect world, the cyborg would have been following obediently behind her creator. Instead, Mimic led the way, shifting subtly as she walked into the ebony-skinned, glowing-eyed shadow she preferred using rather than her true form. Williamson filed behind, surreptitiously wiping his brow from time to time, wishing he wasn't too scared to have his back to the shapeshifter.

~ * ~

Like many of the larger, more vital rooms of the base, Training Hall 412 had an observation deck incorporated into the structure. There was a large window in the center of the restricted chamber, overlooking the exercise chamber, framed by the panels running along its bottom and monitors along either side. Cameras were placed in strategic locations, allowing activities conducted inside to be observed from several angles, helping the observers determine any potential problems in the soldiers' practice.

It served Black Ghost's purposes particularly well now because he wanted to be absolutely certain his system had no flaws. Not that he had any reason to believe his plan wasn't perfect, but there was no harm in running a few tests first.

Besides, it would help to break his puppet.

A shivering figure crouched on the floor of the massive chamber below: with the proper stimulus from Black Ghost, 007 stood. His movements were stilted, rough, because he wasn't yet used to the system, but the commands that pulsed through his veins thanks to his new uniform would not be ignored.

Britain stared at the floor. It was about the only resistance he could put up, since the suit wasn't hooked up to control how he moved his head. Already the corners of his eyes were beginning to burn, and he hated himself for it, aware Black Ghost probably enjoyed watching him cry.

He hated himself for it, but couldn't stop them from coming, any more than he could resist the harsh tugs that spurred each move his body made.

(Weak,) his thoughts chided harshly, bitterly. (If I was stronger, I wouldn't be here… If I'd just gone ahead and…)

Pain gripped both arms, contorting them, shaping as his new master pleased. Britain could feel the change taking place, unable to stop his fingers from lengthening, tapering off into hooked claws, the rest of the limbs hardening and tightened in preparation.

It stung, but not as badly as the knowledge he couldn't do anything to stop it. His arms were locked into place, remaining held rigidly at his sides. He wanted to fling his hands away, or at the very least use his new claws against himself -- already he felt them pricking the sides of his legs, but couldn't stir them enough to even drive them further inside, enough to…

Mocking laughter boomed in his skull, deafening, and Britain's desires shifted to just wanting to tear his ears off, block off that horrible noise. But still his body refused to move, and somehow he thought that it wouldn't help, anyway. Nothing could stop that terrible sound…

A sudden pounding rose from behind, and his body pivoted to face it, left arm extending out to greet the source with a vicious slash. Metal shuddered and tore asunder, and the bisected torso of the robotic soldier collapsed at his feet.

Before he could take a breath, or even think of closing his eyes, Britain was spinning to face the next, then the next two, then the next three. There wasn't any time to really think, yet somehow his actions registered, probably since each was preceded by a twinge of pain, an impetus forcing the desired reaction.

His chest felt too tight, his attacks weren't his own, he moved of someone else's accord, yet Britain didn't scream right away. Instead, the horror built and festered inside, somehow restrained despite the tears he felt building, the twisting in the pit of his stomach that wasn't spurred by his controller.

He didn't scream, not until his transmuted hands closed over an android's skull and twisted. Feeling the wires snap against hid exposed palms, suddenly acutely aware of a viscous liquid coating his skin, he felt a shriek finally tear from its constraints.

And still, even as he gave in to the terror of the moment, the fighting continued, the severed head dropping from his grasp so that his claws could tear into new targets.

The scream soon fell to a moan, since the jerking of his body kept him from catching his breath long enough to sustain it. Instead, it was soon replaced by a soft, almost keening wail, a constant undertone to the clamor of the continued slaughter.

In the observation room, the trapped echo seemed to rise above the more muted sounds of combat. Williamson, clustered together with a handful of his compatriots, heard it at his station and suppressed a shudder.

According to the readout, the shapeshifter wasn't injured. Everything was functioning as expected. But still, if he had to judge from that low sobbing alone, Williamson would have thought the cyborg to be seriously wounded.

Stealing a glance over at the shapeshifter tucked away inside the booth, Williamson saw no reaction whatsoever from Mimic. Peridot eyes were fixed directly on one of the monitors, flickering in the glow from the display. Her face remained unresponsive, even a bit cold, as she listened to her predecessor's quiet whimpering.

Privately, Williamson wondered if it was possible Doctor Gilmore was able to stand being surrounded by so many cyborgs all the time simply because they were the first wave. The prototypes seemed considerably more human than the improved versions that followed…

The commotion from below faded, the test ending with the dispatch of the last robotic drone. Satisfied, Black Ghost eased his hold just enough to let 007 slump to his knees.

He didn't need to keep his control tight at the moment, since there was really nothing for the shapeshifter to accomplish now. If he did anything that could be interpreted as an escape attempt, real or imagined, he could reestablish control instantly and punish him.

But 007 didn't seem inclined to such a foolish maneuver, anyway. Instead, crouching amid the shattered wreckage of his opponents, the bald cyborg continued to weep softly, the sobs wracking his body gaining a bit more force now that he was able to catch his breath.

He was already broken.

Black Ghost snickered, pleased. Exactly as he'd expected.

"Mimic."

The female shapeshifter looked sharply toward him, yellow-green eyes still reflecting the light of the screens she'd been watching.

"Yes, master?" came the soft, reverent query.

"Prepare to return to the Dolphin. I believe it's about time to invite the rest of our guests."

"As you command."

Mimic bowed low, then turned smartly on her heel and marched off, face a tightly composed mask. Nobody could judge from her lack of expression the storm raging inside. After her departure, Black Ghost turned his attention back to the crumpled form below.

All was going according to plan. He couldn't wait to see how the rebels reacted when they learned what their former teammate had become…


	14. Invitation

__

The disclaimers can still be found back in the first chapter; that isn't about to change anytime soon.

~ * Invitation * ~

The trip to the Dolphin afforded her plenty of time to think; indeed, Mimic mused sourly, it left her entirely too much time to consider where she currently stood.

There were no simpleton soldiers accompanying her this time around: the tiny vessel was empty save for the slender figure at the controls. It seemed Black Ghost had judged there was no need for a chaperone this time around, or whatever purpose that quaking grunt was supposed to serve in relation to her.

No, this was a solo mission -- if this drudgery could really be labeled something so grandiose as 'mission'.

It wasn't that she couldn't see the purpose in this step; Mimic understood all too well how her current task fit into the master's plans, even if she felt it beneath her station to have to perform something so mundane.

She would have much preferred to, at least, carve this message out in blood, or whatever liquid she managed to wrest from cybernetic bodies. After all, she was supposed to be an assassin, not merely a messenger scurrying back and forth between sides.

Why couldn't this task have been entrusted to some worthless peon rather than wasting her time?

…Because those scrawny, spineless humans had a knack for messing even the simplest task up, she answered her own query. In all likelihood, whatever wimp that might have been sent in her stead would have gotten himself caught, or killed, rendering the entire point of this endeavor moot.

But not her. Black Ghost trusted her to do as she was ordered, regardless of whatever feelings she might harbor concerning the situation. She most certainly couldn't botch such a simplistic task, never mind the fact that it was so far beneath her function it wasn't funny.

…Besides, even if she chose to seriously entertain the notion of slightly altering the plan, there was always the threat of punishment to be considered.

Mimic grimaced, the features of her face tightening and sharpening slightly as she dwelled on the unpleasant topic. Peridot eyes narrowed into slits, thoughtful, considering the matter carefully.

The problem, she reflected, had much to do with that so-called predecessor of hers, Prototype 007. Though it repulsed Mimic to equate herself with that simpering wreck of a cyborg, that particular travesty paled in comparison to other issues only recently come to light.

However, in some miniscule way, perhaps she actually owed the weaker shapeshifter a measure of gratitude. After all, his presence exposed certain… distressing issues that needed to be considered.

Absently, her left hand strayed from the controls to rest against her chest, fingers tracing along the uppermost line of yellow piping on her uniform. Except for that bit of decoration, her attire was stark and simple, the ebony fabric hugging her lithe form.

The design was supposedly patterned after that which their supreme commander wore, a shadow of his striking wardrobe. Black and gold, immediately recognizable as his colors, and a mark of her standing in his favor.

…Or, so she once believed.

In light of recent evidence, however, Mimic interpreted the coloring of her uniform in a starkly different fashion. Now, it seemed a mark of control -- the control he held over both shapeshifters, not merely the former rebel or his more powerful counterpart.

007's uniform allowed Black Ghost to bend the prototype's body to his will. Did hers share the same function…?

(Why shouldn't it?) she mused sarcastically, glaring into the murky ocean before her. (After all, there's no excuse for error in our organization. Bad enough that the first nine cyborgs all managed to get away in the first place; what fools would leave the chance for another to defect…?)

Yet she had never even considered defection as an option, and certainly wasn't about to under any circumstances. From what she had already witnessed, the 00-numbers were a pathetic lot. Not precisely weak, to be certain, but far from what they could have been… should have become. All of them were intent on wasting their potential, failing to see what they might accomplish if they weren't distracted by silly ideas.

Shortsighted fools, the lot of them.

But that was all beside the point. What mattered was that Mimic still didn't know for certain if her uniform would allow the master to take over her body the same way he could control 007. She was almost certain she knew the answer, even lacking any hardcore evidence other than her own suspicions, and there was no way of testing her theory without sacrificing something vital.

So what, exactly, was she to do about it?

There was no breaching the issue with anyone; Mimic was hardly foolish enough to reveal what she knew, even as the anger grew and festered inside. If Black Ghost even suspected she comprehended the truth, none of the possible outcomes of that would benefit her in any fashion.

Still, the need rankled deep within her to do _something_ about what she'd discovered, no matter how carefully she needed to tread.

It was a long trip to the Dolphin, and it would take just as long to return. Plenty of time to weigh her options and come to the best course of action.

~ * ~

There was a small amount of comfort about performing even the simplest of routines, no matter how insignificant they seemed in the face of current concerns. Francoise attended to her duties with practiced efficiency, finding some solace in productivity.

(The longer I stay here,) she promised herself, (the better chance I have of finding something that will help, right?)

She had to believe that, or guilt would quickly overwhelm her. She worked quietly at her station, pretending not to notice how the seats around her were vacant. Rather than pay attention to her immediate surroundings, she focused on monitoring the area around the Dolphin, both with the radar before her and her internal system.

There was nothing to report yet, but maybe… maybe that would change, soon, and she wanted to be aware the exact second that happened.

She wasn't completely alone on the bridge; Pyunma was in his customary position at the head of the ship, busy at his own station. However, his attention was currently divided between the task at hand and his sole companion.

Their uniforms could hide a lot. They were loose enough that it wasn't easy to tell what lay underneath. Right now, somebody who wasn't already aware of the situation would be hard-pressed to see where Francoise was wearing bandages over her wounds. Doctor Gilmore had already treated her injuries, but the areas were still a bit sore.

Still, the pretty blonde was there, acting like her previous injuries didn't matter… and maybe they didn't, in her mind, compared to the crisis the team as a whole faced.

Rather admirable quality for anyone to have, he thought; how strange she sometimes actually doubted her worth to the group. Everyone brought a variety of strengths into play, and that was exactly why they worked so well together; not simply because they were supposedly a bunch of super cybernetic soldiers…

(_"Not every group has the ability to work together."_)

Albert had said that, on the eve of the 0010 twins' assault, when Pyunma was still trying to determine whether or not this fellowship he'd been thrown into was capable of withstanding whatever Black Ghost sent after them. At that time, he'd seriously wondered if he _could_ work with the other cyborgs; special abilities aside, he seemed to be the only one with combat experience outside the organizations' testing fields.

But they had managed to mesh as a team. They needed to remember that, and continue to work together to deal with this latest trial they faced.

"…Ah!" Francoise's chin snapped up, aquamarine eyes widening imperceptibly.

Pyunma all but sprang from his seat at her gasp, and he spun to face her, his typical collected demeanor swiftly falling into place.

"What do you see, 003?" he asked, curtly.

"There's a small ship approaching from the southwest," came the equally tense report, as Francoise stared into space at the image etched firmly into her mind's eye.

"Just one?" he muttered under his breath, already turning back to his station to check the coordinates as she relayed them.

Within seconds, he had a visual of his own to confirm the blonde's words, and studied the craft critically for a few moments. It was a small, sleek transport, probably unsuited to carrying more than a hand's count of passengers: not the type of vessel fit for a direct assault.

(Of course, if they wanted to attack us outright, they probably would have done so by now.) Pyunma's navy eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin frown.

Like all Black Ghost creations, the tiny thing was armed, and proved it by abruptly firing a single missile toward the Dolphin. Pyunma and Francoise immediately braced, though it was clear to both the projectile's path carried it a considerable distance away from the rebel carrier; it veered too far to the right side, too far off to hit.

Instead, the missile exploded by itself, and though the resulting shockwaves barely rocked the Dolphin, the flash that accompanied it was bright enough to cast everything in shades of white.

(It's not even a screamer missile,) Pyunma noted dispassionately, blinking away the stars that danced briefly before his eyes. (They're not even trying to hurt any of us… it's just a signal.)

"There's something else launching," reported Francoise once she'd recovered from the burst of light. "…Another ship? …It's headed the other way, I can't… I've lost it." She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrated harder, then shook her head and repeated, disconsolately, "I lost it. I'm sorry…"

"Don't worry about it." Pyunma was already striding toward the door, but paused behind Francoise's seat long enough to give the girl a slightly reassuringly squeeze on her uninjured shoulder. "Stay here; I'm going to go get a closer look."

"Be careful," she cautioned, looking up with concern.

He nodded once, acknowledging her warning, then turned and headed out. Francoise sighed and turned back to her station, carefully observing the now silent, unmoving vessel. It appeared to be abandoned, and yet, she couldn't help but feel worried about what might still be waiting on board for them.

~ * ~

The flash had done its job of grabbing everyone's attention, so it wasn't difficult for Pyunma to round up the others and bring them up to speed on the developing situation. The hard part was convincing some of his comrades to stay behind on the Dolphin while he took a couple people to check out the ship. After forced inactivity for so long, the prospect of whatever dangers might be on board the transport were almost welcome.

In the end, he managed to whittle down his away team to simply himself, Jet and Joe, while the remainder waited with Francoise on the bridge. Geronimo was already looking after the sleeping Ivan, and while Albert and Chang were harder to persuade, in the end they conceded to his wisdom in keeping some fighters there -- just in case anything else occurred.

They couldn't afford to overlook the possibility that this was supposed to be a distraction, after all.

The swim out to the smaller ship took only a few minutes, yet that did little to ease the tension Pyunma felt as they approached the silent craft from above. Jet actually reached it first, and nearly wrenched the hatchway open before Pyunma was able to wave him off and get the device Gilmore had given him into place. Once the handheld machine was properly hooked up, it cracked the code and enabled them to enter without incident.

With blasters drawn, they searched the cramped interior, only to find nothing of note: the craft was mostly bare, with no apparent cargo stashed away or secret compartments to be found. The rear of the ship was wider, and there was a place where clearly something else had been attached: another, smaller and probably swifter transport, now conspicuously absent.

Whoever had piloted the thing here was gone now, Pyunma judged, though that didn't cause him to sheathe his blaster or tell his teammates to relax. One could never be too careful, especially when dealing with Black Ghost.

The cockpit was empty as well, the chair turned to one side like its former occupant had decided to leave quickly and couldn't be bothered to return it to its proper place. But another possible reason for its having been left in that fashion became apparent when he noticed a blinking light on the terminal. It might have taken a bit longer to notice if the seat was correctly positioned.

"008…!" Joe noticed it as well, and turned inquiring garnet eyes toward the combat specialist, awaiting his verdict on their next action.

Jet was not quite so deferential, and moved to press the button directly above the light before Joe caught his wrist. This earned the brown-haired boy an impatient glare, and the hawk jerked his hand free, but didn't immediately move to approach the terminal again.

"C'mon," he snarled under his breath.

Pyunma studied the terminal, silently piecing together from what he knew about Black Ghost technology the likely function of most of the panel. After determining to the best of his ability that it was safe -- he wasn't about to trigger the whole thing blowing up with them still inside -- he moved forward and, bracing to run just in case, pressed the button.

A sheet of light erupted before the trio's eyes, and, falling back, the first thing that flashed through Pyunma's mind was (Well, shit.)

That particular sentiment didn't change when the light sharpened into a thin screen and they were able to see Black Ghost's leering visage suspended before them.

{"Greetings, cyborgs,"} the dark commander chortled, drawing himself up proudly so that his figure dominated the screen. His bulbous golden eyes seemed to sweep from one tense face to another as he sneered, {"So good to see you well; I hope I haven't interrupted anything important."}

It was difficult to discern whether the message was prerecorded or being broadcast live; it didn't really matter either way. The hatred in each man's eyes as they stared upon the face of the enemy was just as vivid. Pyunma felt Joe draw himself up to his right, while on his left Jet balled his hands into fists.

{"As you're no doubt aware by now, I've been improving upon the design of certain cyborgs,"} the braggart continued. {"My latest assassin prototype, Mimic, is especially charming; it's truly fascinating what this transformation technology can accomplish with a little tweaking!"}

{"But I'm particularly pleased with how the reprogramming project has been progressing. I'd say the results so far are impressive -- wouldn't you agree?"}

His cape flared out with an imperious fling of his hand, an over-dramatic gesture that nonetheless had the desired effect of drawing their attention, so that when the fluttering edge swept away they focused on what stood behind it, moving closer into frame.

To Pyunma's right, Joe let out a little choked noise, something vaguely recognizable as the start of a name before he caught himself. To his left Jet growled. Pyunma felt his jaw tighten, and through he was better at keeping his emotions under control, he knew his darkening eyes undoubtedly reflected his anger.

Britain kept his head bowed as if he found something intensely interesting about the unseen floor of wherever they were broadcasting from, despite the fact that his eyes were tightly shut. The shapeshifter held himself rigidly, shoulders level, back straight, hands folded demurely in front. The stark sable of his new uniform made a harsh contrast with his pallid skin; the detailing along the front only seemed to highlight how much thinner he seemed.

Black Ghost laughed, and the sound must have been deafening from where 007 stood, yet he didn't wince. The ghastly commander brought his arm up to rest on the silent shapeshifter's shoulders, but the cyborg didn't try to pull away.

Jet snarled again, louder, but he remained where he stood, fully aware he couldn't do anything about what they were witnessing. Beside him, Pyunma clenched and unclenched his fists in helpless fury -- then fell completely still, marine eyes narrowing as something else arrested his attention.

He hadn't immediately noticed it, but Britain wasn't standing completely still as Black Ghost ranted beside him. Though it was hard to tell because of his lowered head, the Englishman was mouthing words… not speaking aloud, but attempting to communicate nonetheless.

(…Please… don't…)

Abruptly Black Ghost moved, cupping Britain's chin with his hand and forcing it upright. Pyunma saw the gloved fingers dig into his jaw, closing it sharply, and knew somehow that the commander was aware of the shapeshifter's actions.

Britain's eyes flew open at the sudden movement, allowing the trio to see how they were lined with red. He'd been crying, recently, and with good reason from what little they were able to see now.

But what alarmed Pyunma the most was the numbness he saw in G.B.'s eyes, the dull sense of resignation apparent in his lack of expression.

Forcing the shapeshifter to face toward him, seemingly uncaring of how Britain quickly squeezed his eyes shut again, Black Ghost leered, {"Yes, I'm quite proud of how 007's been responding to rehabilitation. I believe he'll be ready again shortly. You're welcome to come see the results for yourself, if you're not satisfied now. Besides, he'd enjoy seeing you again…"}

Another round of mocking laughter closed the message, the display blinking out into static, then silence.

"Damnit…"

Pyunma nodded slightly in silent agreement with Jet's hiss. Returning to the console, he began to work, searching for the information they required.

(This has 'trap' written all over it.)

All three thought that, but each refused to be the one to point the obvious out. It wasn't like it mattered, at any rate. What mattered was the pain they'd seen on their comrade's face as Black Ghost toyed with him.

"003, I think I've found the coordinates for this ship's home base," Pyunma reported at length, tone cold and clipped. "I'll transfer them when you're ready…"

["…Go ahead, 008."]

The slight catch in her voice made the muscles in Pyunma's back stiffen, a private curse lancing through his thoughts. She didn't have to say anything more for him to know: she had witnessed the broadcast as well.

(Probably, it went through to the bridge to make certain we all saw it,) he decided, gritting his teeth. (Wonderful; we didn't all need to see it… but, of course, Black Ghost would think otherwise…)

…Well, there was no helping that now. He rapidly transferred what little they needed back to the Dolphin, then straightened and turned to face his companions.

"Guys…" Joe gave them a haunted look, cinnamon eyes wavering behind their mahogany curtain. "…We have to get him back."

Jet stared straight ahead, into the ocean depths that stretched out before the cockpit, past where the Dolphin waited for their return, and said nothing. Neither did Pyunma, though he spared his leader a sympathetic glance before turning away, pretending to be completely focused on the task at hand.

But a part of him recalled the dead look in Britain's eyes and secretly wondered if they might already be too late.


	15. Assertion

__

Like always, disclaimers can be found by those interested in such matters back in the first chapter.

~ * Assertion * ~

(That wasn't G.B.)

Chang had seen the broadcast along with everyone else; as Pyunma had surmised, the message was transmitted from the tiny vessel onto the Dolphin. Black Ghost ensured that all of the rebels would hear his challenge.

(That can't have been G.B.)

Just because he'd seen what the tyrant so obviously wanted he and his friends to witness didn't mean he believed it. After all, Black Ghost was a master of deception, wasn't he? And with at least one other shapeshifting cyborg around, the one who'd been on the Dolphin for who knew how long, it was possible…

…No. No, that didn't make sense.

While certain other members of their group might think otherwise, Chang was quite capable of considering things logically. The chef might not have been noted for this in the same manner several of his teammates were, he possessed that simple ability just like everyone else.

He was easily able to pick out the flaws in his own desperate attempt at falsifying what he'd seen. Even as he sought distraction, trying to pass off his flimsy theories as reality, a rebellious voice in the back of his mind poked holes in the attempt.

If the shapeshifter in the transmission had really been an enemy in 007's form, then why hadn't he acted more receptive towards his so-called master? Oh, sure, he'd deferred to the cloaked commander's will, but there'd been nothing voluntary about it.

He may not have screamed or struggled onscreen, but that didn't mean much of anything. They didn't have any way of knowing what was happening internally.

Black Ghost had gone on about how well their former ally was responding to readjustment, but, somehow, his bragging didn't quite mesh with what the firebreather had seen. 007 had stood silently, almost unmoving, while the tyrant ranted beside him.

He didn't react, but neither did he do anything to help prove how much control Black Ghost really possessed.

That discrepancy stuck in Chang's mind, forcing him to reluctantly discard the idea that it could have been anyone other than Britain. If it was all staged, why wouldn't Black Ghost have his minion act more… what was the word…? …Obedient, maybe…?

It was painfully clear, however, that the villain's companion was not there willingly. From his body language alone -- strange and stilted as it seemed in places, somehow -- Chang could tell the poor soul fervently wanted as far away from the insane masked man as possible.

But at the same time… For all the apparent evidence that it really was Britain standing there, one detail remained that Chang adamantly refused to try and equate with his friend.

How could he match the dead look in that man's eyes with the vibrant goofball he'd known before this whole ordeal began?

Even with what Britain had become over the past two weeks, slipping further away from the group and farther into depression, what he'd glimpsed when Black Ghost forced the shapeshifter to look up was… not his friend. That was not G.B.

Britain may have prided himself on his acting skills, but wasn't too good when it came to hiding his feelings. Typically, all it took to know what he was thinking was looking at his face; the Englishman tended toward being very expressive, even if he didn't always realize how much everyone could read him.

But this time, all that had been present in those startlingly dull brown eyes was a frightening submission.

Chang shook his head, like that curt motion would dislodge the disturbing image from his memory, and struggled to refocus on the task at hand. While they'd immediately set off for the coordinates they'd received from the craft, travel on board the Dolphin was hardly instantaneous. There wasn't enough time for anybody to rest even if they'd been so inclined, but too much to spend merely sitting around waiting.

Besides, inactivity only made it harder to ignore the darker paths his thoughts were drifting towards the longer he dwelled upon the whole mess.

He fumbled with the coal-black pot in his arms before managing to slip it back into the cupboard; there was a distressed clank as the equipment inside shifted thanks to the added weight. Chang barely noticed the noise, frowning in forced concentration as he turned back to the stove.

Vaguely, he was aware that he was having a bit more difficulty with the simple recipe than he'd ever care to admit. It really wasn't fair: usually cooking provided the perfect escape route from dealing with more distressing situations. He wasn't even attempting anything too fancy for once: brewing tea wasn't exactly the most difficult of tasks. But he just couldn't concentrate…

A knock on the door dispelled the slight amount of focus he did have, and Chang turned around to see who was disturbing him. He opened his mouth to say something, but fell silent even before the portal slid open and revealed a not entirely unexpected guest.

"…006."

Just the fact that Francoise was compelled to use his code number to address the chef would have been clue enough that the female cyborg was distressed, even if he'd disregarded his own feelings. The pretty blonde studied him with sympathetic aquamarine eyes, doing a poor job of masking her own trepidation.

"…Oh, 003!" Chang inserted a false cheer into his voice, fully aware the sensitive girl could see through the ruse effortlessly. All the same, he offered her a smile that didn't touch his eyes and beckoned her inside. "Just in time, just in time. Could you be a dear and help me with this…?"

It was a lame attempt at distraction, but a welcome one. Francoise nodded and moved forward at the same time, matching his artificial smile with a soft one of her own.

"…Yes, of course."

And that was the last thing either said, for the obvious questions that could be asked had only even more painfully obvious answers, and would only lead to distinctly more uncomfortable lines of discussion. For now, it was easier to evade the issue by busying themselves with trivial matters.

~ * ~

The angry swish of tautly controlled punches created a steady undercurrent of deadly rhythm in the training chamber. It faded into the background, pushed away by churning thoughts and frightful suppositions that Joe kept to himself. Thanks to this mental maelstrom, he almost missed it when one of his companions finally spoke.

"…You do realize that we'll probably have to fight him."

"…Hmnh." Joe nodded dully, almost automatically, in agreement with Albert's quiet observation.

The brown-haired cyborg didn't look up, so he missed the glance that Pyunma briefly shot at the German, remaining blissfully ignorant of the way the former rolled his eyes at the latter's all-too-obvious statement. Albert also ignored the somewhat reproachful look; his eyes were tightly shut, arms folded in front of him, thin mouth set in a neutral line.

"Fight, nothing!" Jet continued to punch the air, the force of his strikes increasing along with the bitterness in his voice. "We'll probably have to _kill_ hi…"

"I don't believe that!" Joe's head snapped up and he stared at the redhead with hurt-filled garnet eyes. "There's got to be another way!"

"Oh, really?" Sarcasm oozed from Jet's tone, and he stopped practicing, turning to glare challengingly at his leader. "Fine, then. Tell us, 009, exactly what the hell else we're supposed to do."

"…Ahh…"

A cold smirk twisted Jet's lips as Joe faltered. He didn't seem to take any real pleasure in seeing the other cyborg hesitate, other than perhaps a slight twinge of satisfaction at the unspoken bit of acknowledgement of the point he was trying to make.

"Can't think of anything, can you? That's not surprising."

"002…" Pyunma began warningly, shooting the American a disapproving look that Jet chose not to notice. Instead, the flight specialist began to pace, boots clicking out a staccato beat.

"How did we beat him last time? …Oh, that's right, we didn't. 001 just zapped him and made it all better -- 'cept that didn't work as well as we hoped, huh?"

"002." Silver-blue eyes fixed him with a frigid glare. "Don't…"

"Don't what?" Blazing copper eyes flicked in Albert's direction. "Don't remind you about what happened? How you got your ass kicked, or you --" he was looking directly at Joe again "-- nearly got yourself killed?"

"……I…"

"You didn't do so great yourself, 002," Pyunma pointed out harshly, trying to cut this short before things snowballed out of control.

Unfortunately, it seemed it was already too late for that. Rage flared in Jet's bronze pupils for a second, but it quickly sharpened and found a new target -- and he was already too far-gone to fall silent now.

"I know, I _know_ -- I screwed up, okay?!" Voice dropping into a hateful rasp, he forged on, "We all screwed up. And guess what? 007's the one paying for it."

"………"

"We can't go in there blindly expecting to bring him back." Jet's voice rose again, fierce and cold. "You guys saw that… that wasn't 007 anymore. He's long gone, okay? If we really wanna help him, then…"

"No!" interrupted Joe sharply. He shook his head violently, insisting, "Look, we'll go in and… and…"

"And what? Damnit, Joe, what do you think we're gonna do?! Haven't you figured it out yet? We _lost!_ The G.B. we knew is _dead!_ He's been dead since the goddamned virus hit him in the first place -- or didn't you notice?"

His fist slammed into the nearest wall, punctuating his outburst with a dull, final thud. Jet glared at Joe, refusing to let himself be affected by the anguish clear in his leader's bright crimson eyes. Pyunma and Albert exchanged glances, then the latter rose to his feet and crossed over to where the American stood.

"That's enough, Jet." The German's left hand moved to close over one of the redhead's shoulders, while Albert restrained the urge to add that his outburst had crossed the point of being way more than enough a while back.

"Shut up."

Jet twisted away from the outstretched arm, still glaring challengingly at Joe -- waiting for a response. When it became clear that the brown-haired boy wasn't about to break the heavy silence hanging in the room, he decided to push further.

"Haven't you figured it out by now? Or didn't you notice how 007 was acting all these last couple weeks? He wasn't even trying to fit in anymore. He just gave up."

"…I won't."

"What?"

"I won't give up on him."

For the first time during the whole confrontation, Jet looked taken aback. Joe was staring the hawk down, determination filtering in to replace the anguish that had been distorting the young leader's face.

"I'll find a way to save him. I don't care what it takes…"

"………" Jet looked half-torn between his previous anger and exasperation, and more nebulous emotions that warred just beneath the surface of his sharp copper gaze. "…009, look…"

"I won't give up," Joe was hardly finished, and with sudden venom shouted "I won't give up on him like you!"

"WHAT?!" The hawk's rage returned instantly, only to be met with equal outrage from his opponent.

"I won't let Black Ghost take G.B. away like this! Not without a fight!" Joe's fists clenched at his sides, same as Jet balled his up, but lashed out at the redhead verbally instead of physically. "How can you stand there and talk about killing him after everything we've been through as a team?! You act like it's not a problem at all, you…"

"…Joe… Calm…"

"What's the alternative?!" snarled Jet, cutting Pyunma off. "You make it sound like we've got a choice, but I still don't hear how we're supposed to…"

"We'll find a way if we look hard enough!"

"And if we don't find it before he kills us, then what?"

"We… he… you…"

"Think, okay?! Try thinking for once! There's nothing we can do for him now! The best way to help him is by…"

"Shut up! Don't you care at all?! You're such a heartless b…"

"_Joe--!_"

Again Pyunma's warning shout was cut short, but this time it wasn't by another voice rising in anger, but by the sharp retort of gunfire. It was only one shot, but that was all it took. The mood shattered with the deafening bang and tinkling of glass, and all eyes turned to Albert.

The silver-haired German lowered his hand, smoke issuing from one of his fingers. His glassy gaze took in the stunned looks of his comrades.

"Save it for when we get to the base," he said curtly, turning shortly on his heel and stalking toward the door. "We're not helping anyone like this."

The door slid shut behind him, leaving Joe and Jet staring at each other, while Pyunma looked more pointedly at the smoldering wreckage of the lamp that had been sitting on the countertop between the formerly arguing comrades.

"That's one way to get people to listen," he muttered under his breath. Louder, he added, "C'mon, let's get out of here."

Both turned their attention to him, and for a moment it seemed Jet was fighting the urge to make some snide comment. Thankfully, he successfully repressed the impulse and instead shook his head suddenly and stalked toward the door, still radiating anger despite the jolt he'd just gotten.

After he exited, Joe hung his head, shoulders slumping. It was like all the energy and anger simply drained out of him with the American's departure.

"…008, I…"

"Don't worry about it." Pyunma shook his head, dismissing the apology before it was finished. He understood all too well that everyone was on edge. Jet had a tendency of inciting confrontations in the calmest of times, so it was hardly surprising that he'd risen to the bait now.

Unfortunate, yes, but not entirely unexpected.

Joe shook his head, staring at the ground, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His thick bangs cast most of his face into shadow: his visible eye shone with quiet conviction.

He regretted most of what he'd said, but there was one promise he intended to keep. No matter what the cost turned out to be, Joe was determined to bring Britain back safely.


	16. Illusion

__

Disclaimers are located back in the first chapter. For those of you who have been patiently waiting for some real action… the payoff begins here.

~ * Illusion * ~

The crew of the Dolphin soon gathered at the deck. According to the data Pyunma had transferred from the enemy craft, they would be arriving at the base shortly. They had decided beforehand not to take the ship direct to their destination: it seemed highly likely that they would have to make a quick escape, and didn't want to risk the Dolphin's destruction.

If the situation absolutely called for it, the few members who were remaining behind could bring the Dolphin into play, though that was a scenario everyone hoped to avoid.

Francoise stood beside Doctor Gilmore; though she balanced Ivan's bassinet carefully in her arms, she paid little attention to the slumbering child. There was a slightly distant quality to her downcast eyes, the aquamarine pools shimmering with worry.

Like the other cyborgs, she was clad in her usual red uniform; however, the gold muffler that completed the ensemble was noticeably absent. Nobody really needed the visual reminder of her previous injury. It had already been decided that the female cyborg would stay behind; in the minds of the others, she'd done more than enough by protecting Gilmore from the assassin. Had she not been present, it seemed a foregone conclusion that the good doctor would not be standing there then.

Still, Francoise took little comfort in this knowledge, for it meant one less cyborg heading off on this mission. She despised fighting, but having to wait helplessly while others battled was not precisely an enjoyable alternative.

Surreptitiously, her gaze traveled from one face to another, studying her comrades one last time before they set off for the enemy stronghold. The tension hanging over the six was almost a tangible cloud, strengthened by the uneasy silence that accompanied it.

She caught Joe shooting Jet a furtive glance: while the two stood on nearly opposite ends of the group, the mixture of nervousness, concern, and frustration playing over the leader's face made Jet the most obvious recipient. The spike-haired punk seemed to be pointedly ignoring the accelerating cyborg, however. Jet's thick bangs shadowed his face, making it difficult to read his expression beyond the firm set of his jaw.

Chang uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again; somehow, Francoise sincerely doubted it was due solely to the tension between the other cyborgs. Albert, Geronimo Junior, and Pyunma were far more difficult to read, concealing whatever they might be feeling behind solemn eyes and thin, determined frowns.

"Be careful, all of you," Gilmore was instructing the others… like they needed any reminder of the dangers they were about to face.

Still, Joe nodded, responding automatically with "You too, Doctor. We'll be back as soon as we can…"

Jet made a strange, curt noise in the back of his throat, scoffing at the vague attempt at reassurance. Joe glanced over at the American without moving his head, then drew himself up slightly, steadying himself.

It was Pyunma who turned away first, but this was hardly surprising; after all, strictly speaking the team was heading into his territory. Jet followed close on the combat specialist's heels, the others filing after them.

Francoise looked sadly after her departing friends, hugging Ivan's bassinet a bit tighter. The sleeping infant stirred, and she dropped her gaze to him, watching the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. Beside her, Doctor Gilmore sighed, and she didn't need to glance over at the elderly scientist to know that his face was lined with worry.

Six of her teammates were leaving… she would have gladly given up anything to ensure that seven would return safely.

~ * ~

The rest of the crossing passed almost dreamlike, or at least it seemed to from Chang's perspective. Maybe it was due to the fact that he wasn't leading the way, like Pyunma, or trying to discern the quickest and safest route to the underwater fortress.

If he'd considered that particular issue, he probably would have felt quite guilty about it. Here they were venturing into hostile waters, and yet he was scarcely paying attention to his surroundings. He hung close to both Albert and Geronimo, inadvertently having them pick up his slack while docilely following in the aquatic master's wake, figuring Pyunma knew where they were going.

In truth, however, Chang didn't even realize how dangerous his inattention was… paid it no mind whatsoever, ironically enough.

There were much more important matters to think about -- like what, exactly, he would do once they arrived.

His focus shifted back from the nebulous future to the present when their destination finally came into view. Nestled among jagged spires of rock, the dark slope of the structure's roof gave the illusion of an impenetrable shadow, nearly invisible.

Now his senses sharpened considerably, and Chang followed the example of his comrades even more closely, aware a single mistake could mean the difference between detection and survival. He still kept pace with Geronimo, trusting the giant's senses better than he did his own.

At length, as they maneuvered carefully along the rocky spires, Pyunma waved them all to cover just before the midnight hull of a submarine rose into view. The cyborgs waited until it passed overhead, then, at the combat expert's signal, swam quickly down to where the warcraft had emerged.

As they both expected and hoped, the telltale steel hatch soon appeared before them, tucked away beneath a covering of faux rock. To their surprise -- and slight unease and discomfort -- they discovered the gates to be slightly ajar: the span of a few feet separated the massive doors… hardly enough for a ship to pass through, but wide enough for a human to pass through safely…

Pyunma glanced back at his colleagues, then nodded slightly and darted swiftly forward, aware they followed close behind.

Albert fell to the back of the group as they passed through the gates, and stole a backward glance at the portal even while trailing after the others. He was mildly surprised to note that the gate didn't immediately seal itself after they were all inside; still, it was far from comforting.

Swiftly ascending, he stifled his instinctive gulp for air when he broke the surface of the water as best he could, then paddled to the edge of the dock. All the while, the German's steel blue eyes scanned his surroundings, trying to determine what awaited them.

Still no sign of Black Ghost or his flunkies. The underground harbor was disturbingly quiet: the equipment scattered around remained silent and unmoving, unmanned as far as he could ascertain. Several boxes sat in stacks here and there, possibly waiting to be loaded once the next transport arrived.

But where were the workers, the soldiers, the guards…? Their apparent absence only heightened Albert's discomfort.

"Let's go." Jet broke the silence quickly, already heading toward the nearest exit without so much as a glance back to the others.

"002, wait…" Joe emerged from the water and started after him, only to be stopped by Pyunma's hand tightening over his shoulder.

"I'll go with him," the dark-skinned cyborg volunteered. In a terse undertone he explained, "We should split up to cover more ground anyway…"

What he didn't add was that he, out of everyone present, was likely the best choice to accompany-slash-supervise the short-tempered flyboy.

"Alright then…" Climbing out of the water, Albert stepped up behind Joe and clasped a hand over his leader's other shoulder. "I'll go with 009, then."

Geronimo and Chang shared a sideways glance, then both nodded slightly, recognizing that they were paired together by default. As Pyunma hurried off after Jet, the remaining cyborgs followed more slowly, then splintered off to head in separate directions.

~ * ~

Deep in the heart of the stronghold, a cloaked figure raised his head slightly, yellow eyes glowing faintly in the dim lighting of his chamber. Though his frozen, skeletal grin remained unchanging, the air of cruel satisfaction surrounding him seemed to intensify.

"Our guests have arrived," he spoke aloud, not merely to the dark room he waited alone in, but to certain members of his forces as well. "Be sure to welcome them back home…"

"With open arms," replied a low voice, belonging to a slender figure that crouched in the shadows some distance away from where the master sat.

Peridot eyes flashed once, then the silhouette straightened and began to contort, melting into the darkness until it was nearly impossible to discern where it was.

~ * ~

The resistance that Joe and Albert had run into so far was close to minimal, much to the German's growing unease. So far, all they had come across were the usual bulky, blunt-featured robots that Black Ghost so enjoyed throwing at them in hordes, and even those seemed to number significantly less than what he was accustomed to.

They had yet to meet a single human soldier, however… There were no scientists, no abnormally strong machines, no waves of grunts blocking their progress. Just intermediate waves of the same type of mass-produced weaponry they'd faced and beaten so many times before.

Albert wished he could take that as a good sign. However, the living arsenal's instincts insisted that such seemingly favorable conditions most likely meant that Black Ghost had something worse in store…

If Joe was concerned about the same thing, the younger cyborg certainly concealed it well. While he wasn't using his acceleration mode as they made their way through the convoluted corridors, he still tended to remain several feet in front of his partner. Even how he tended to hesitate at each door they came across, peering around each corner and into each portal carefully before either heading through or moving on, only gave Albert seconds each time to try and close the distance between them.

Neither cyborg was entirely certain just how they were going to locate 007 in the sprawling complex. …Well, actually, Albert figured that eventually they would either stumble across the shapeshifter or he would find them, but as for how long that might take…

About the only thing they had to go on was the sparse contact they were maintaining with the others. So long as nobody else suddenly announced that they'd found Britain, it was probably best to keep searching, and hoping…

"…004!"

Joe pressed himself flat against the frame of the doorway he had just peered through, and Albert felt his pulse leap as he caught up with his leader. Flattening against the wall, he dropped to a crouch just behind 009, shooting him an expectant look. Joe said nothing, but nodded toward the portal shortly, mutely telling his partner to look for himself.

Edging forward, Albert moved just enough that he was able to glance into the adjoining room. Though Joe's behavior gave him some clue as to what to expect, there were some things that were simply impossible to adequately prepare for.

At first, all he could see were the forest green backs of still more robotic soldiers; making a silent tally, he counted off at least eight of the grunts before his attention shifted to other, more vital details. Like, for example, the still figure in black hanging from restraints built into the otherwise bare steel wall.

Albert heard Joe suck in a breath, and opened his own mouth to say something. But before the first word passed his lips, there was a sharp, almost inaudible click that he picked up primarily thanks to how close he stood to Joe -- and then he was alone.

Instinct made him spring to his feet, and in the next instant he dashed into the room only to find the battle already over, the enemy soldiers already crumpled on the ground with smoke trailing from their wounds. Joe reappeared at the far end of the room, directly in front of the trapped cyborg.

Shaking his head slightly, Albert grunted softly, both annoyed and relieved at the same time. His raised arm lowered, but instead of letting his gunhand fall back to his side he kept it outstretched in front of him. Gingerly the German began picking his way through the bodies of the fallen guard, heading over to join his comrades.

Joe wasn't even aware of his partner's presence at that moment. The only thing that mattered was the semiconscious cyborg suspended in front of him. Even as he started tugging on the cuff encircling the prisoner's right wrist, he stirred and raised half-lidded brown eyes to gaze up at his rescuer's face.

"Zero…zero-nine…" Britain's voice cracked, and the shapeshifter swallowed hard before choking out in a raspy whisper, "You… came…"

"Don't talk," ordered Joe, his voice calmer than he felt right then. "Just hang on, okay?"

The first manacle gave way in his hands at that moment, and with it no longer bearing his weight Britain slumped forward. Joe quickly grabbed hold of the shapeshifter, before he fell far enough for the cuff round his other wrist to come into play: Britain hardly needed another jolt like that to his already battered frame.

With a little coaxing, the other shackle soon unlatched as well, leaving Joe as the only thing holding Britain up. Hooking his arms underneath the Englishman's, Joe stood there in silence, temporarily overwhelmed by their ordeal. He could feel Britain shivering in his grasp, felt the shapeshifter wrap his arms around his waist, like he was trying to confirm 009 was really there.

He unconsciously tightened his grip in response, to confirm the same thing. He didn't want to consider what the shapeshifter must have been put through before their arrival. What mattered now was that it was over, and wouldn't ever happen again…

Behind them, Albert drew to a halt and stood silently watching his reunited comrades. The tenseness did not entirely leave the German's expression, though steel blue eyes brightened briefly with relief before returning to casing the area, trying to ensure there weren't any unpleasant surprises in store for them.

"007…" Joe's crimson eyes shone with unshed tears as he regarded his formerly lost friend. "…W…we have to go. C-can you stand, or do you need…"

His question was cut short as Britain tightened his embrace, the clutching fingers suddenly driving into his back. The transformer's trembling ceased, and Joe felt the features of the face pressed against his chest shift subtly. Though he couldn't look down and see it, somehow he knew the shapeshifter was smiling.

"Help me, 009," he whispered into the folds of Joe's tunic, soft voice carrying a strength that hadn't been there before. "Let me lean on you for a while, and I'm sure I'll be alright…"

Albert heard the shift in Britain's tone, saw his embrace shift from thankful to fierce, and after only a second's hesitation moved to intervene. But before he took more than a step forward, the shapeshifter rose to his feet, and the cold expression on his face as he peered over Joe's shoulder was warning enough to freeze Albert in his tracks.

With inhuman grace he moved, carrying his burden with him, and Albert spun around to track the movement. Instead of breaking for the doorway, which the German half-expected, the shapeshifter moved so that his back was flush against another wall -- and Joe was still directly in front of him, only now the brown-haired boy was turned to face Albert.

Britain's right arm was wrapped completely around Joe's waist, pinning his arms flush against his sides. His left hand cupped the boy's jaw, fingers curled so that the tips pressed firmly against his cheek. Peeking over his hostage's shoulder, Britain smiled at Albert -- a sadistic, twisted grin.

Face wrenched with silent fury, Albert raised his right arm and pointed it toward the other cyborgs. Oddly enough, the shapeshifter's smile seemed to widen slightly as he stared down the five barrels leveled in his direction.

"Ah, 004…" Britain's voice came out laden with false innocence, and he blinked several times, eyes widening and glistening with feigned tears. "I thought 009 and I were your friends! You're really going to shoot us…? You can't _mean_ it, really…"

"Shut up." Albert's tone was glacial.

The shapeshifter's eyes widened, brown irises contracting sharply, surprise flooding over the familiar face when 004 punctuated his sharp words with a sharper burst of gunfire. Then a ragged shriek accompanied the splatter of crimson against the bare steel walls, the howl of a wounded animal.

The unbearable pressure around Joe's chest abated, and he stumbled forward, momentarily too stunned to function properly. Though his mind raced to fit the pieces together into something more coherent, it took precious seconds for everything to register and fall into place.

There was a sticky warmth at the nape of his neck, a dampness coating the back of his hair. Dazedly he raised one hand to feel the area; his fingers glistened with scarlet moisture when he brought it back before his face.

Albert was abruptly beside him, all but yanking him forward, seemingly ignorant of how the younger cyborg stumbled and nearly lost his footing entirely. Uncomprehending, Joe stared at the German's face, finding something distinctly amiss about the coldness in his glassy eyes, the harsh set of his mouth.

He snarled something; the words were lost on him, ringing meaninglessly in Joe's burning ears. 004's grimace deepened, then his left hand tightened over 009's shoulder. With a harsh shove he spun him around just enough for Joe to witness another horror, one that threatened to freeze the breath in his throat.

A black-suited figure swayed and staggered on its feet -- vaguely he realized that this was once Great Britain, or rather the person he'd mistaken for his missing friend. Nothing of that former resemblance remained now; the only visual clue left was that the uniform this stranger wore was exactly like the one 007 had been wearing before.

That, and the fact that the stumbling creature was currently clasping the right side of his face with one hand -- covering the wound 004 had just given the shapeshifter, when he…

Joe lurched backward, overcome with sudden nausea. Yet he couldn't stop staring, couldn't tear his terrified gaze away from the grievously wounded cyborg.

The figure in sullied black staggered, animalistic snarls tearing from its twisting mouth. Its left arm fell against the wall, fingers fusing together, then the convulsing limb began to tear apart, three hairline cracks running down to the elbow. Joe stared, petrified, at the sickening sight.

The appendage suddenly snapped upward, completely morphed into a tri-pronged claw. Pointing it toward the frozen Joe, the shapeshifter turned a furious glare upon him, exposing a startlingly feminine face. A single pale eye bored daggers into the stunned silent lad, its mate sealed shut by ugly black sores. Beneath that ghastly sight gaped a twisted maw that widened with its -- _her_ -- rising shriek.

"_009--!_"

She lunged, lashing out with what used to be her left arm. Joe gaped at the approaching horror until he felt something slam into him -- not from the front, but from behind. Albert flinched as the shapeshifter passed overhead, the tip of one of her claws grazing his back, but that was all the damage she managed to inflict.

Rolling to one side with Joe, he grimaced with effort as he pulled both of them upright.

"009!" he shouted, glaring full into his commander's face. "Snap out of it!"

Another wretched shriek behind them; Albert looked sharply over his shoulder, then cursed and shoved Joe backward again. He started to pivot, knee unhinging as he rose into a crouch.

Then three prongs crashed full into his chest, cutting short his cry of agony when a black shadow slammed into him. His back met the wall first, and his head snapped back, causing blinding white stars to explode before his eyes.

The pressure on his chest intensified, the claw pinning him against the steel beginning to sprout tiny black barbs. Albert glared weakly at the distorted visage leaning over him, the face twisted by both wounds and rage alike. The single peridot eye blazed with hellfire, the mouth widening into a gruesome smile that bared jagged white teeth.

The shapeshifter didn't have to say a word to get her point across. It was clear she intended to make 004 suffer agonies far worse than a blast to the face.

The twisted maw widened, leaning closer -- then reeled backward abruptly, smote by an unseen hand.

The weight against his chest lightened, then disappeared entirely as the monster staggered back, convulsing again and again. Albert sunk to the ground, legs folding beneath him, pulling air into his bruised chest.

The beast snarled, slashed uselessly at thin air, only to stumble once more. Suddenly, she collapsed, falling to the floor like a discarded rag doll. The shuddering figure contracted in on itself, shrinking and reshaping into a black-furred rat that darted to the door. It was gone before Albert could react.

Joe reappeared then, and staggered in place briefly before turning to face his partner. The brown-haired boy's legs trembled, yet held enough strength for him to limp over to where Albert lay and crouch beside him. Garnet eyes drank in the sight of the German's wounds, where the front of his tunic was torn apart, then rose to meet his steely gaze, filled with shame and self-recrimination.

"…004… I…"

Albert forestalled the inevitable apology with a shake of his head. Lifting his left hand, he clasped his commander's shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. Somehow, he couldn't quite force a smile to come to his lips, not even for Joe's benefit.

"…Well, what do we do now?" he questioned softly.

Joe remained silent, for he had no answer yet for that query. The two sat together in the darkened chamber, each wondering what their next move should be. Several possibilities rose to mind -- the original mission still remained -- but right then, neither exactly felt capable of continuing. For the moment, the best recourse was to rest… even if they could only spare a couple of minutes before forging on…


	17. Devastation

__

As always, those interested in the disclaimers can find them back in the first chapter.

~ * Devastation * ~

The crackle of flames faded beneath the pound of rapid footsteps as 005 and 006 plunged down the hallway they had just blockaded with the blaze. Chang stole a quick glance over his shoulder before hurrying after his partner: while the fire wall would not last long without the chef supplying fresh flames, there was little left behind that could possibly pursue after they died out.

It was what lay ahead -- or what they _hoped_ to find up ahead -- which mattered most at the moment.

So far, their search had turned up little more than cookie-cutter android soldiers to smash-slash-burn and a maze of disorienting corridors and rooms. Chang sincerely hoped that Geronimo knew where they were; he'd already managed to get himself completely turned around more than once.

…How _did_ Black Ghost's employees manage to find their way around these sprawling complexes, anyway? After a while it all tended to look the same to the firebreather: if there were signs that showed what part of the base they were currently exploring, he missed them entirely.

What they needed, he decided privately after a few seconds of consideration, was one of those huge map displays with a flashing dot that proclaimed 'YOU ARE HERE' in bold print. Maybe a directory of important areas… just a basic outline of the layout would be great, too; he wasn't picky…

At this point, however, there was only one place he wanted to find so they could get out of this horrible, confusing fortress…

Ahead of him, Geronimo ground to an abrupt halt before the next doorway they had come across. By the time Chang caught up, the giant's fist had already formed a sizable dent in the steel panel. It buckled and fell from its frame, and both cyborgs peered into the darkened room beyond.

Computer stations lined the walls of the room; the blank monitors of those closest to the doorway gleamed when the light streaming around the pair standing there reached them, but were otherwise dark, silent, unresponsive. There were no flashing lights to betray equipment that was still active. The station appeared to be completely abandoned.

(Just like the last ones,) Chang thought, huffing, face screwing up with disappointment.

At least they could guess at where they were in the base, even if there was no way the chef could know for certain whether or not their estimates were correct. If the machinery they'd uncovered in the last few rooms they'd checked was any indication, this was where a lot of research and development took place. Though they'd yet to run across anyone other than robot guards, it seemed like the ideal place for the evil organization's scientists to work…

Geronimo was already moving on, and Chang scurried after him, though his shorter legs and slower start made it difficult to keep pace with the seemingly tireless 005. The sheer stamina that the larger cyborg possessed never ceased to amaze Chang…

They nearly missed the next door; unlike the others they had passed in this sector, it blended with the bare steel walls of the hallway almost seamlessly. The frame was recessed, flattened, making the outline of the portal more difficult to pick out in the dim lighting.

Chang actually noticed it before Geronimo did, rounding the corner just in time to see the strongman stride past it. He blinked, then shouted, "Hey, wait…!"

005 paused and looked back at his comrade as the shorter cyborg hastened to catch up. Only then did he notice the door and understand. Turning to face the portal, he ran his hand experimentally over the smooth surface, attempting to discern how it opened.

…Not that it mattered terribly what the proper process was, considering his method remained the same. Still, it helped him determine exactly where to strike the door so that he wouldn't have to waste time prying it from its hinges.

One punch later, Geronimo carefully pushed the bent panel aside and allowed Chang to peek through the opened portal. Hearing the chef swallow a gasp, the giant silently braced himself while turning his own solemn gaze into the chamber.

Like the rooms before it, the laboratory was darkened, with all the overhead lights switched off. However, the dull, muted thrum of running equipment cut a steady undertone, and a pale light seemed to pulse from within the machine that dominated the center of the high-walled chamber.

At first, all Geronimo could tell for certain was that there was somebody inside the tank; it was difficult to make out anything more from where they stood in the doorway. The translucent gel that filled the container reduced the figure to a bare silhouette, a limp black shape against the sickly peach background.

Even so, he had a pretty good guess who it was.

Chang reached the same conclusion as his partner, and with a choked cry squeezed past and darted toward the tank. He paid no attention to how the taller cyborg was slower to move forward. The possibility of a trap didn't even register until he was well into the room, but since nothing appeared to happen, it hardly gave him pause.

The glass was ice under his hands, the cold suffusing his fingers almost the same moment that they met the smooth surface. By then, he was able to recognize the unconscious form of his friend sealed inside.

"007!" he shouted, banging a fist against the stubborn tank wall.

No response from the shapeshifter suspended within. Chang thought furiously for a moment, immediately discarding the half-crazed notion of using his fire-breath on the tank. There was no telling how the gel would react to open flame. Keeping his left hand pressed against the reinforced glass, Chang reached for the blaster holstered at his side.

The weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder stilled his arm. The chef looked up at the taller cyborg, the panic swelling in his chest subsiding just a little at his comrade's ever-stoic expression.

Stepping up beside 006, Geronimo gripped the sheet sealing the top of the tank and pulled. The sheet quickly buckled underneath his fingers, a low hiss signaling that air was escaping the container. Within moments the seal was completely broken, and 005 tossed the ruined lid off to one side, letting it strike the floor with a resounding clang.

Carefully he reached inside. Pinkish slime rose and trickled over the sides of the vessel, displaced by his thick forearms. Ignoring the chill substance, Geronimo gingerly lifted Britain to the surface. Wires snapped or slid free of where they'd been attached to the shapeshifter's body, and Chang leaned over the edge just enough to tear the breathing mask off of his friend's face. The firebreather nearly fell directly into the tank himself because of this, but managed to catch his balance in time. Clinging somewhat precariously to the side, he watched, worrying, as Geronimo lifted Britain's limp body out of the tank.

"007?" After a few seconds ticked by with no response from the shapeshifter, Chang tried again, more concern leaking into his voice: "…007? …G.B.?"

~ * ~

One thing Britain had learned quickly during his captivity: the dreams never came when he was inside the tank.

It was as if all of his senses were taken away at once: the chill of the strange gel quickly settled into his skin, until it was like his own body simply ceased to exist. There was no light, no air, no sound… nothing left. Nothing…

At one time this might have scared him. Now, Britain welcomed it.

It was so easy to lose himself in the darkness… So easy to slip away, away from the waking world and all its horrors…

How wonderful it would be, if he could just stay there forever, without ever having to worry about waking back up…

But that was a fantasy that continued to be dispelled, and every time he would be dragged from that serene state by chill hands, reawakening to the same gruesome visage leering overhead. Always, Black Ghost was there, the first thing he saw when emerging from the void.

Always, Black Ghost was there… the same cruel taunts cutting through his thoughts, the same pinpricks of agony bursting through his skin…

Already, he felt sensation begin to return, and knew with bleak certainty that the dark master would be standing there, waiting for Britain to sense his presence. Then the laughter would start, and the pain…

His back came to rest against something hard; he felt it settle against his body, pulling him up, out of the darkness. Silently he whimpered, wishing he had the strength to resist so that he could slip back into the calm numbness… but it was inevitable.

The unwanted caress of air, the sensation of being lifted and held tightly in someone's arms… Britain didn't want to open his eyes, didn't want to see that ivory sneer, the sickly golden eyes.

The longer he went without acknowledging that dark presence, he knew, the harsher the punishment would be. But since Black Ghost was going to assert his control over 007's body anyway, what was the harm in delaying it just a few seconds longer…?

Garbled words reached his ears; despite his resolution Britain soon flinched at the grating sound. As feeling returned to his body, he became acutely aware of the gel that remained clinging to his skin. It dribbled down in rivulets, along the side of his face.

A trickle soon found its way into his mouth, and that forced him to cough, until he was hacking miserably. Instinctively he tried to draw his folding body closer together, shifting to his side as coughs racked his frame. Trembling, he knew the pain would return at any second…

………Only it didn't happen right away.

It took a few seconds after his choking fit began to die down for it to register with Britain that something was different. The only pain he felt was a dull ache in his chest from the hacking; the uniform hadn't started to constrict yet. The arms holding him weren't even tightening their grasp: why wasn't Black Ghost punishing his insolence in ignoring him yet?

Reluctantly, Britain cracked his eyes open, blinking to keep the final remnants of the slime out of his eyes.

The face just overhead was a blur, yet there was no confusing it with the ebony skeleton mask he'd already become accustomed to seeing upon awakening.

(…Zero-zero…five…?)

It was a testament to just how much circumstances had altered the shapeshifter that seeing Geronimo's face come into focus above him didn't fill Britain with indescribable joy and relief.

Instead, his eyes widened with surprise, the pupils swiftly dilating as vague comprehension sharpened into horror.

(If he's here, then the others…)

"007!" Britain didn't need to see the speaker to know who it was, but still twisted around to stare down at Chang. "I'm so glad you're…"

But Britain was beyond listening. Fear overrode all other emotions -- fear not for himself, but for the others. Because… because if they were here, then it meant that…

With a choked cry he shoved away from Geronimo, only managing to twist away from his arms because the move startled the strongman. He hit the floor hard, a lightning jolt of pain shooting up his side, helping drive some of the lingering numbness out of his legs.

"007?!"

Chang tried to catch his friend's arm; Britain yanked it away and in his frenzy almost struck the chef across the face, catching himself in the nick of time. Awkwardly, the shapeshifter stumbled away, turning to face his friends even while backing up. Frantically he glanced around, spotting the doorway and wondering if he could slip past them…

Apparently sensing his intentions, Geronimo shifted his stance so that more of his weight rested on his heels. Strange as his friend's behavior was, somehow he was already beginning to understand what must be going through the transforming cyborg's mind. It was simple to read the naked fear on Britain's face.

Chang saw it too, but was less certain of how to react. Knowing only that he couldn't let his friend run away again, the chef shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, staring at the shapeshifter with sympathy.

"007…"

"………Go…" Britain's own voice sounded too soft and weak in his own ears, robbed of any confidence or vigor it had once possessed. Swallowing painfully, he tried again, croaking out "……Go away, please… Don't come near me……" 

"………" Chang shook his head in disbelief, never tearing his gaze away from what remained of his old friend. "…G.B., we… we're here to…"

He stepped forward; Britain backed into the corner, shaking his head violently.

"No… n-no…" Already Britain was dangerously close to bursting into tears, his chest heaving furiously as he fought for control over his shaking voice and shivering body. "Y-you can't… …Just run, _please--!_ Before…"

But he felt the all-too-familiar prickling sensation across his skin, heard a low chuckle in the back of his head, and knew with a sudden crushing certainty that it was already too late.

Black Ghost knew. He knew that his old allies were there… they'd walked right into the trap, just as predicted.

Feeling his muscles tighten in response to the cruel prodding of his uniform, feeling control shift from himself to his dark master's hands, Britain responded in the only manner left to him -- the only way he could still defy Black Ghost.

"005, 006, _look out--!_"

007 lunged forward, leading with both clawed hands. Geronimo and Chang were already moving out of the way, the latter scrambling to one side and glancing terrified over his shoulder as the shapeshifter shot through the space where they'd been standing. There was a screech of metal, and he saw where the strike left slight furrows in the ground.

"007!" he screamed, staring in horror as his former friend lurched upright and turned to face them again. "007--!"

Britain's mouth worked soundlessly; the collar of his uniform was restricted now, barely allowing him enough slack to breathe. Black Ghost wouldn't allow him even the slightest amount of defiance during this battle. The rest of his body went rigid, dropping into a crouch that he could spring from at any moment, in any direction.

His poise was that of a true killing machine, so long as you ignored the stark terror on his face, the fear and agony in his widened, tear-brimmed eyes.

Chang couldn't ignore it. The fire-wielding cyborg stood frozen, staring torn at his former friend and ally. One hand hung uselessly beside his blaster; there was quite simply no way he could possibly bring himself to even draw it, despite the obvious threat.

Geronimo sensed that his partner was incapable of acting, and knew it was solely upon his shoulders to deal with this opponent. He couldn't blame Chang for this, for his own heart ached at the thought of fighting the shapeshifter.

But, there was no choice, and no time…

Taking the initiative, 005 sprung forward and moved to pin 007 down. His grasping hands missed their target, however, as the shapeshifter dropped bonelessly to the ground. Sharps claws closed viselike around the giant's leg; with a grunt of effort Geronimo yanked his leg free, and recovering quickly he seized his opponent by the chest.

The black fabric felt strange in his grasp, but that barely had time to register before 007 took advantage of his position. The smaller cyborg whipped his right arm back, then brought the twisting limb back in a nasty arc that cracked against the outside of Geronimo's arm.

Geronimo winced, and couldn't contain his cry when the whip transmuted into a blade, digging deeper into his forearm.

"005!" Chang cried, shocked out of his stupor and running over.

Rather than allow the shapeshifter to capitalize further on his closeness, Geronimo threw him backwards, and clamped his other hand over his injury. A dark crimson spread slowly along the length of the torn sleeve, more visible than the other, clear liquids seeping from the wound.

Landing in front of the tank, Britain stood up straight. His posture was stiff and almost proud, almost mocking, but his face remained a mask of agony as he stared in horror at his handiwork.

Then, as Geronimo and Chang watched warily, he moved again. But instead of pressing the attack, the shapeshifter merely raised his right hand in front of his face. It was back to its normal shape, though coated with scarlet liquid where it had plunged into Geronimo's side.

To their utter astonishment, 007 pressed the bloodied fingertips to his mouth.

This clearly took Britain off guard as well: his already widened eyes bulged for a moment, then filled with revulsion and, it seemed, a flash of anger that wasn't directed at the other cyborgs. Keeping his lips tightly shut, he seemed to shudder with disgust, though his body remained perfectly rigid and his hand continued to press against his mouth.

Chang felt sick to his stomach, not merely because of this action, but because with a sudden flash of insight he understood exactly what it implied. Not only was his friend being controlled, but now, it was even more painfully obvious that whoever was doing so had a sick sense of humor.

…And they didn't have complete control yet, either. But… how…

Abruptly Britain's body gave a painful-looking jerk, his side contorting sharply as the skin along his stomach seemed to ripple. His mouth snapped open in a strangled scream, then he spat and choked at the bitter taste of blood in his mouth, fresh tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Chang gasped, and unconsciously grabbed onto Geronimo's hand.

(…that uniform…)

"Ze…zero-zero-five!" he hissed under his breath. "The… that…"

Geronimo inclined his head slightly, signaling he understood. He, too, had seen the violent pulse -- moreover, he'd felt the unusual texture of the fabric under his hands. Taking into account how the shapeshifter was acting so differently from before, when the virus had controlled him… it was clear something had changed.

Gathering himself before the shapeshifter could recover, Geronimo lunged forward again, and this time Chang sprang after him. 007 was unprepared for both to attack at once, and though he dodged to one side, one of the giant's massive hands soon closed over his shoulder.

Britain stared at his friends, his eyes wide and wild, clearly confused. Geronimo wrapped his arms tightly around the squirming shapeshifter, and Chang fumbled to hang onto one of his hands, trying to find a seam in the black fabric.

But his probing fingers found nothing, and within seconds 005 found himself hard-pressed to hang onto 007, for while he'd ceased struggling, jagged black spikes were beginning to erupt from his skin where it was pressed against the strongman's. 

"…L-let go!" Britain choked out, staring pleadingly up at Geronimo's face. He could see the stress and pain beginning to flood across the giant's stoic features as the barbs dug deeper into his skin, and fear restored his voice enough for him to sob, "Stop it…!"

Finally, the pain was too much, and Geronimo was forced to loosen his grip. The shapeshifter immediately twisted to one side, and his left hand closed over Chang's neck. The firebreather didn't even have enough time to cry out in shock before he was wrenched off his feet and thrown away, slamming into the wall beyond the tank.

He slumped to the ground, gasping, and dimly heard the thud of something landing directly in front of him. Then there was a sharp pressure at his neck again, and he felt himself being lifted off the floor, using the wall for leverage.

His vision cleared enough for him to see Britain staring at him. The shapeshifter was sobbing freely, tears rolling down his cheeks while his fingers dug into his friend's neck.

Chang couldn't see where Geronimo was anymore, but somehow sensed that they were on the far side of the room. He could see the tank over the slope of Britain's shoulder, giving him some reference of where they were.

The pressure at his neck was terrible, but not nearly as intolerable as the torn expression on his former friend's face as the shapeshifter's arm arced backward in preparation to deal the final blow.

"…G.…G.B.…" he gasped out, trying desperately to will strength back to his unresponsive body. If he could just move, then maybe…

There was a flash of something in Britain's eyes, though it was hard for Chang to tell what it was. Already his vision blurred dizzily, a slight blackness creeping along the very edges.

Then the raised limb blurred, and Chang felt his eyes go wide. Suddenly, the pain in his neck seemed negligible, lessening substantially.

Britain maintained eye contact with his friend, a few more tears sliding down his cheeks as he took in the incomprehension playing over the chef's face.

"…sorry…" he whispered.

The pressure at Chang's neck went completely slack, and the fire-wielding cyborg slumped to the floor, staring numbly at Britain. The shapeshifter swayed slightly, then his legs folded beneath him and he fell to the ground as well.

Britain's right hand remained pressed against his side, the claws still buried in his stomach. The black uniform began to darken further, a stain swelling around where it had been torn.

Chang stared, feeling a scream build in his sore, constricted throat. The pressure building in his chest was unbearable, but, somehow, he found himself unable to let it out. All he could do was stare silently, the corners of his eyes burning.

Geronimo made it over to where they were just seconds later, and took in the situation immediately. With a tightly controlled mask of calmness falling over his features, he knelt beside the pair.

Gently he turned Britain over, dark eyes flashing as he studied the wound. The shapeshifter's fingers remained tightly embedded in the flesh, and he didn't dare try wrenching it free just yet: even if he fashioned a tourniquet from his scarf, the amount of blood he'd lose once the blocking fingers were removed…

Instead, he lifted the shuddering 007 into his arms, noting with alarm how quickly Britain's face was turning ashen. More disturbing, however, was the faint smile on the shapeshifter's lips despite the pain he was undoubtedly in.

Or maybe it was _because_ of the pain he was in…

…There wasn't any time to consider it.

Standing swiftly, Geronimo relayed a curt message to the rest of the cyborgs: [(We found 007. He's badly hurt. We're taking him back to the Dolphin…)]

"006," he called to his partner, gazing down at the stout cyborg. His expression was stern, but not without sympathy. "Let's go."

Chang nodded numbly, hardly able to acknowledge his comrade's words. He rose unsteadily to his feet and fumbled after the strongman, putting one foot in front of the other almost mechanically. Geronimo was already out the door by the time he reached it, but the fire-wielder still stopped there and peered back into the room.

The tank was still sitting there silently, surrounded by puddles of gel and occasional patches of darker liquid. Chang stared at it for a long moment, the dull incomprehension on his face gradually changing to sorrow, fear… and then a fierce, boiling anger.

The pressure building inside his chest snapped, and Chang howled his rage, unleashing a torrent of flames into the room. The white-hot blaze engulfed the tank instantly, and a sickening smell immediately swept back and choked the fire-breather, making him cough and stumble backwards.

Eyes burning from smoke and other factors, Chang choked miserably, turned on his heel, and took off down the hallway after his comrades. Behind him, the fire spread swiftly, until the laboratory was completely consumed by the flames.


	18. Explosion

__

Disclaimers can be found back in the first chapter. A bit of explanation: the events in this chapter and the previous installment take place mostly simultaneously, which should be obvious when you're reading… If you're still confused after reading this installment, just contact me via the e-mail in my profile, and I'll try explaining in more detail…

~ * Explosion * ~

Jet would have greatly preferred going solo for this mission.

Rather than waste time arguing about it, he'd headed off as soon as they got into the base, ignoring how the rest reacted. After all this time, they should know better than to get in his way once he'd made up his mind, anyway!

He hadn't been too surprised that somebody decided to follow; someone had to 'keep an eye' on the 'hot-headed kid' so that he didn't get in over his head, right? Never mind that he didn't need or want anybody else tagging along.

About the only thing he was grateful for was that it was just Pyunma following him. Jet definitely didn't need to have, say, Joe tailing him right now. Not only was he angry enough with his so-called leader as it was, just the thought of still having to listen to his whining and wavering about what they might have to do…

…Joe would sooner die than commit to such a solution. And that was liable to be exactly what happened if it came down to that…

In fact, Jet had a sneaking suspicion that he was the only one willing to follow through if that particular solution became necessary. Oh, he didn't enjoy the concept by any means, but that hardly factored in at this point.

…If he had been turned against the others in the same way, Jet would have preferred to die at someone else's hands, too. Anything was better than being subverted like that…

So far, the drones he'd come across while tearing through the base were hardly any real match for the furious cyborg. There wasn't any time to waste drawing out combat, especially with such obvious cannon fodder. Jet tore through the robot soldiers with relative ease; experience with such models helped him capitalize on certain weak points, and the small groups they patrolled in were far from a threat.

Occasionally he heard laser shots wailing behind him, another reminder of his 'partner' for this mission. Jet wasn't too worried about Pyunma; 008 was capable of taking care of himself, even disregarding that 002 was more or less ripping the guards apart anyway. He didn't know what was more annoying: the fact that Pyunma insisted on tagging along or the fact that his firing meant there were still active grunts being left in the aerodynamic cyborg's wake.

Decimating another trio of guards, Jet charged through the doorway they had been blocking and found himself standing at the bottom of a stairwell. The flights of steps hugged the walls, leading up the dizzying shaft. Jet had to crane his neck back in order to see where they ended.

The redhead smirked humorlessly and ignited the boosters in his legs, shooting up the center of the passage. They cut off just after he cleared the platform near the top, and his feet had barely touched the ground before he forced the door open and was through.

Pyunma arrived just in time to catch sight of his partner slipping through the door. Grimacing, the dark-skinned cyborg muttered a curse, then started up the stairs, taking the steps two and three at a time.

~ * ~

Black Ghost knew of the rebels' arrival. Once the would-be rescuers had slipped through the doors so conveniently left open for them, he was aware of their every move. It was simple to monitor their progress thanks to the cameras secreted in practically every corner.

Nothing happened within these walls that he wasn't aware of. Just as it was at so many other bases scattered across the globe, just as it would one day be worldwide. Just as it should be…

He was aware of Mimic's failure, how the trap she'd set for the cyborgs nearly resulted in her own destruction. While he was far from pleased with the shapeshifter's poor performance and retreat, it was little more than a minor source of irritation by this point. All it meant was that she would need certain repairs after the cyborgs were properly neutralized.

Black Ghost didn't even bother keeping track of her location. More important now was dealing with the rebellion's pitiful infiltration attempt.

As for the pair Mimic unsuccessfully tried to destroy, Black Ghost had already redirected several patrols to where she'd left them. Ultimately, it wouldn't matter how many waves 004 and 009 might manage to dispatch despite their wounded condition: there were always more drones he could send.

Robots, after all, were completely disposable. So were cyborgs, to a certain extent… If one or two of the prototypes ended up getting killed during this assault, his scientists could still gather useful information by studying their corpses.

Chuckling to himself, Black Ghost turned his attention to one of the larger screens before him. This particular display was an overhead view of one of the many laboratories, though this one held what was perhaps the most important project housed in this stronghold.

While it was quiet now, he knew from his observations that two of the invaders were getting ever closer to discovering its location. Once they arrived, the trap could be sprung at his leisure… He needed only to wait for the perfect moment.

Undoubtedly the cyborgs thought they were doing well to have gotten this far. Black Ghost sneered to himself, taking perverse delight in their imagined triumph. How delicious it would be, how delightful, to tear that supposed victory from their grasp and crush them under his heel where they belonged! He looked forward to breaking them as he had broken the shapeshifter… and, before that, the bleak realization on their faces as they came to recognize their place at last.

So he watched, face frozen in its perpetual smug grin, as 005 broke down the door to where 007 was held in stasis.

Even this was a calculated move on the tyrant's part. While it might have a good idea to have the shapeshifter waiting at his side and confront the rebels directly, Black Ghost found it just as effective to isolate him. No doubt the cyborgs had been half-expecting to face both the commander and his puppet together.

However, he wanted something to be made perfectly clear to the renegades before their subjugation: his control over their former comrade was complete and absolute. He didn't need to be present in person to flaunt his authority. He wouldn't even need to project his image before them.

All that mattered was that 007 heard, felt and understood his commands, and was forced to obey.

He watched as 006 broke and scurried over to the tank, briefly pitying the fact that he hadn't placed any extra weaponry. The portly cyborg made a tempting target regardless of his plan to capture as many of the rebels as possible; his flagrant disregard for the possibility of traps was a little annoying. He filed that little bit of information away for future reference: the fire-thrower would need training to become better aware of his surroundings.

005 followed more slowly, using the caution his partner had failed to show. Black Ghost observed with no small amount of smug pride how the giant moved, commending the prototype warrior on his efficiency. He worked quickly and effectively, taking stock of the situation before acting accordingly… He wouldn't need as much training as prototype 006 clearly required.

The strongman cracked the container open and lifted his former ally out. 006 struggled to assist in his own bumbling fashion, though it was obvious there was little he could do at this juncture. The manner in which he hovered about was almost humorous; if the mask serving as Black Ghost's face could move, he surely would have been grinning cruelly at the pitiful sight by this time.

The tyrant's bulbous eyes glinted stained gold, and he chuckled deeply, waiting for his puppet to stir.

He didn't have to wait long before he got the first stirrings of feedback. He saw the shapeshifter shift his weight, coughing, trying to draw into himself, and could all but predict the path his thoughts would take. Foremost was fear, anticipation of the pain that was surely coming… Another testimony to how effective his rehabilitation was thus far.

Then, confusion at the unexpected delay… Feeling continued to return, unaccompanied by pain for once, and with a measure of control he'd rarely been allowed since his reprogramming began, 007 turned his head enough to see the face of who towered above him instead of Black Ghost.

Black Ghost saw the comprehension on the transforming cyborg's face swiftly turn to terror, and nodded in self-satisfaction. He watched 007 pull away from his former friends, and had to resist the urge to laugh aloud, opting to give him a few moments more before making his move.

There were sensors in the laboratory for picking up aural information to accompany the visual, so he heard 006 stammer out the shapeshifter's codename. Odd, how anyone could put such emotion into a number: just another example how they'd somehow managed to twist another fragment of their dehumanization around so surreally…

Black Ghost was honestly surprised when 007 mustered enough strength to respond; soft and weak as his voice came out, it was still more than he expected at this stage. The shapeshifter hadn't done much other than cry during his sessions, never speaking a word to anyone. Apparently seeing his former teammates was enough to restore his voice…

Well, that was as good a signal as any to assert his dominance.

Black Ghost had opted for the most direct form of control possible with their technology: it took only a thought for the suit to react. As the pinpricks that accompanied his commands began spreading across the shapeshifter's skin, he felt 007's dismay and terror sharpen, almost tangible over the link he opened.

He laughed, knowing that it echoed clearly through his puppet's fractured mind, amused by his reaction.

__

{(Did you really think you could prevent this, 007? Your 'friends' refuse to listen to you… they only want to help… but you're the one who will be helping them back to where they belong…)}

007 screamed -- not merely through the link, but in real life, warning his former allies in time for both to avoid his first lunge, a maneuver that should have taken them completely off guard.

Feeling the slightest twinge of annoyance at that, but not allowing it to show, Black Ghost merely tightened his grasp further. He knew instinctively just how much pressure to apply to cut off the transforming cyborg's voice without choking him to death. The growing despair swelling from his puppet was almost reward enough in itself, and he continued to taunt him softly, constantly whispering reminders of his weakness.

__

{(You are nothing without me, cyborg, nothing. Completely worthless -- think of how you were wasting your gifts before! You couldn't defend yourself, or anyone else, but now… now, you can fight. Now, you can kill…)}

Black Ghost was patient; rather than goad the shapeshifter into pressing the offensive again, he dropped him into a defensive stance and waited for one of the others to attack. All the while, he continued to press mercilessly, driving on: 

__

{(…And you want to kill, don't you? You'd love to kill these two, wouldn't you?)}

006 was staring wide-eyed, frozen and useless. Black Ghost was tempted to dismiss the fire-breather as unimportant; judging from his partner's stance 005 seemed more likely to react first. Still, he monitored both carefully even while seamlessly continuing his rant:

__

{(Or would you rather have them join you like this, 007? You could be teammates again, same as it was always meant to be, before your pathetic attempt at rebellion inconvenienced my plans…)}

He didn't need the link to sense the shapeshifter's absolute horror at that concept. Sneering to himself, seeing 005 shift his weight again and sensing he was about to act, the tyrant drove his point home, taking delight in striking again at 007's wretched human weaknesses.

__

{(I'll let you decide, 007 -- Do you want to kill them yourself, or have them join you?)}

005 moved to grab 007, but the transforming cyborg dropped underneath the giant's arms and seized hold of his leg instead. Black Ghost toyed with the combat for a bit, choosing to let opportunities to counter present themselves rather than pressing for them. He saw a fine example when 005 finally managed to grab his opponent, and in a flash turned the tables, wounding the giant's arm.

He wasn't surprised when the strongman threw him backwards, recovering easily from the throw. With the brief lull in the battle the tyrant decided to repeat his question, wanting to force a response from his puppet.

__

{(First blood, 007… To kill or not to kill…? Whatever you want…)}

In truth, Black Ghost was actually willing to follow through with that promise, if only to see what the shapeshifter's reaction was. While it would be a pity to destroy 005 and 006, both prototypes were ultimately disposable. Also, giving 007 the ability to choose their fate… regardless of his decision, simply the fact that he'd made it would surely shatter what remained of his foolish resistance.

Feeling the shapeshifter hesitate, Black Ghost forced his bloodied fingertips to his mouth, amused by the waves of revulsion and dismay that followed. 007 was his tool, his puppet, and the sooner he came to realize that and fully accept it, the easier it would be to maintain that perfect control…

The door directly across from Black Ghost buckled and burst open, shot off its tracks. Unperturbed, not relaxing his grip for a moment, the commander studied the cyborg that stood revealed there with glowing golden eyes.

"Ah, welcome, 002," he greeted the newcomer smoothly, without even a hint of annoyance entering his voice.

Jet answered by opening fire, aiming directly for where the tyrant's heart should have been. But Black Ghost glided effortlessly to one side, letting the lasers cut into the equipment lining the walls instead. Even now, he felt nothing more than mild annoyance at the disturbance: one cyborg alone wasn't enough to disrupt his plans.

Still keeping tabs on what was happening in the laboratory so far removed from where they were via the link, Black Ghost moved to deal with the situation at hand.

Jet wasn't standing idle; the boosters in his legs activated immediately after he started firing, and he swooped to the right, anticipating a counterattack. The blaster gripped in both hands kept firing endlessly, bolts tearing into everything save his target, much to his utter frustration.

He wasn't even thinking coherently anymore, driven by only three concepts: (Keep moving; don't stop; _kill him!_)

But there wasn't much room for maneuvering in the control room, even for someone with jets in his legs, and Black Ghost had the advantage of a cool head and complete control over his reaction.

The first bolt of purple lightning caught Jet full in the chest as he lunged overhead, robbing the breath from his lungs. The second nearly took his hand off, and sent the blaster he'd been gripping so tightly flying from smoking fingers. He landed hard on his back, several feet away, and tried to grab for it, only to get knocked backward by a third shot to the chest that slammed him into the wall.

"Pathetic."

Another blast of energy completely engulfed its target -- not the red-haired hawk slumped against the wall, but the silver pistol lying useless on the ground. The electricity completely overloaded the blaster, leaving it drained and worthless; even if the cyborg mustered enough strength to try and reclaim it, it wouldn't do any good now.

Threat neutralized, Black Ghost turned his full attention back to the drama unfolding elsewhere, ready to add his touches where they were needed. 005 and 006 had rallied for another attack, with the giant wrapping his arms around the struggling shapeshifter. Black Ghost brought an end to that hapless resistance at once, capitalizing on the closeness by reshaping 007's skin into spikes.

007 found his voice again; Black Ghost heard him begging for release, and laughed, both aloud and over the link.

__

{(Does that mean you'd rather recruit him, 007?)} he taunted. As expected, he felt his pawn quail mentally from the thought, and mercilessly added, _{(Or will you kill him? End his suffering with your own hands? It's up to you…)}_

In the corner, Jet groaned and stirred; Black Ghost spared him a glance while debating the merits of sending another blast of lightning his way. Even while mulling this over, he kept pressing the shapeshifter for a reply, eager to have him snap. One way or the other, he'd have his puppet completely broken shortly…

The situation shifted as 005 loosened his grip; apparently even his reinforced steel skin could only take so much. Black Ghost forced 007 into immediate action; seeing 006's guard lowered, he made his puppet seize hold of the fire-breather and throw him against the far wall, following that up with a chokehold to the neck.

__

{(I grow weary of this game,)} he growled at the shapeshifter. _{(Choose or I will choose for you!)}_

He didn't specify which option he intended to take; he was willing to go either way. Intelligence had shown that 006 and 007 seemed to consider each other friends; perhaps the other cyborg's death would be shock enough to break his toy…

The familiar thin wail of a laser blast caught his attention, a beam of light streaking toward his face.

Though a shield of energy dispelled the shot without incident, Black Ghost still felt real annoyance as he looked over to its source: another cyborg had arrived. The brief glance he got before the new arrival ducked back behind the door confirmed his identity: 008.

The aquatic specialist wasn't charging in blindly as his comrade had. Though he surely must have noticed where 002 lay crumpled on the floor, he didn't rush to his side. That would have been suicide, for there was no cover he might have used to even get closer. The closest thing to shelter was the doorway itself, and so 008 plastered himself against the other side, mind undoubtedly racing to formulate a plan on how best to counter the situation.

Black Ghost was not about to give him time to consider any options, real or imagined.

The commander felt real aggravation at the disruption, minor as it was. There was nothing 008 could do; he and his allies were already defeated, grasping at straws. Within moments the fate of one of their own would be sealed, and Black Ghost wanted to revel in that victory, in the despair and resignation that would follow.

Besides, the combat expert had made one very fatal error: he assumed the steel wall would be strong enough to protect him from Black Ghost's wrath.

It took only an instant to increase the power of the electricity he used from the mild bolts that had incapacitated 002 to the full charge he used to punish those that displeased him. Golden eyes flashed crimson, and violet energy surged toward the door, blowing apart the steel and electronics that stood between him and his target like paper.

A choked scream, followed by a thud, rewarded his effort. Chortling, Black Ghost once again returned to goading his puppet, making one final demand before following through with his own decision regarding 006's fate:

__

{(Now, 007, choose--!)}

But before he could complete his demand, Black Ghost found out he'd made a tiny error of his own.

Snarling with unrestrained fury, Jet slammed into the tyrant at full throttle, heels spouting white flames. Pyunma's arrival had helped spurred his recovery; witnessing his comrade's defeat was all the impetus he needed to go completely over the edge and throw the one weapon he had remaining at Black Ghost: himself.

More than ever, Jet simply wanted his enemy dead, even if he had to tear him limb from limb with his bare hands.

There was no reason behind the insane attack at all: just the simple, primal urge to kill. Blindly he clawed, gouged, tore at the cloaked man, dimly registering grim pleasure at the simple fact that he'd actually managed to catch the damnably smug bastard off guard.

Black Ghost couldn't deal with him and maintain control of the shapeshifter. Concentration shattered, he answered Jet's roar with an enraged snarl of his own: "You dare--?!"

They hit the wall, and Jet slammed the tyrant's head into the screen behind him. Electricity tore into his torso, but he ignored the pain -- no, it only fueled the rage, the crimson hatred flowing faster through his veins at the burning in his chest. He punched and clawed, choking on his own fury, gouging, tearing, trying to rip the madman before him to shreds.

Then, suddenly, the pain in his chest dulled to a throb, the energy dying away. Once that was gone, some of the rage started to abate as well, enough that some form of awareness returned to the battlelust-crazed cyborg. The wild fervor faded from his flashing bronze eyes -- not completely gone, but reduced to churning just beneath the surface as he stared down at his enemy.

The right side of Black Ghost's face, the side he'd slammed into the terminal again and again, was smashed almost beyond recognition. The bulbous golden eye was shattered, reduced to a few shards of yellow glass, and exposed behind that was… circuitry. Snapped and sparking wires, gray and black metal.

(A robot…?! Or cyborg…)

More of the battle-rage drained away at the realization: the monster Jet had been fighting… was little more than another of Black Ghost's puppets, his proxies. A substitute for the real mastermind, allowing him to watch over one of his projects without exposing himself to any danger.

Even as that cognizance washed over him, a familiar voice piped in the back of his mind, making an announcement that made his blood run cold, a further shock to his system. 005… telling everyone that 007 was…

The damaged creature still pinned beneath 002 sputtered, drawing Jet's attention back down to it. Though half its face was caved in, the perpetual white skeleton smirk was still recognizable on the undamaged portion of its mask, and a hollow, metallic laugh issued from the eternal leer.

"…Fail…failure… I've still won, you fool… you see…? H-how many of your friends are de…"

Feeling another outraged scream burning his throat, Jet bit his lip hard and closed his hands over the cyborg's neck. One twist and this version of Black Ghost was silenced forever.

He'd won. He'd won…

…Funny. He didn't feel victorious.

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Jet cast one final glance at the limp, busted figure lying before him. Bile seemed to rise in his throat, and he couldn't resist the urge to spit at the damnable face before turning away.

He stooped to collect his gun, shoving it into its holster disgustedly. Useless, now, but maybe it could be fixed, later…

He almost ran, almost jogged, really, over to the door, but slowed his pace before stepping outside. Pyunma was lying against the far wall, half-pinned beneath the wreckage of what had been the wall just by the door… though that probably wasn't why the dark-skinned cyborg wasn't moving. Jet crouched and shoved it aside, carefully turning his partner over, sharp copper eyes searching for wounds.

Thankfully, 008's chest still moved, rising and falling in time with his faint, labored breathing. Just the fact that he was breathing brought a grain of relief to the red-haired hawk.

"Damnit, 008…" he muttered just the same, shaking his head.

Hefting the limp form of his comrade as carefully as he could, Jet propped Pyunma up against his shoulder. Noticing the combat specialist's blaster lying on the ground, he claimed it for himself, figuring it was better for somebody actually capable of using it to have it for now.

He stood up, left arm supporting his partner, holding the gun at the ready. Looking down the hall, running over the fastest possible way out of the base, Jet smirked coldly to himself and ignited the boosters in his heels.

"Time to go," he muttered, and took off down the hall with the unconscious Pyunma in his arms.


	19. Evacuation

__

All the important general disclaimers are located back in the first chapter. This installment ended up being divided so that I could expand on events in both sections, so we haven't reached the end quite yet… sorry about that.

~ * Evacuation * ~

After receiving G-Junior's short but frightening status report, Francoise immediately relayed the information to Doctor Gilmore, and quickly decided it was time to move. As risky as moving the Dolphin deeper into enemy waters was, it was infinitely more important to ensure the safe return of the rest of their crew.

Keeping the female cyborg on board the ship had its advantages: Francoise recalled perfectly the path the others had used to approach the base, and was able to help guide the Dolphin along roughly the same course. At times like these, she found it considerably easier to accept the 'gifts' bestowed by her conversion.

Still, the blonde's pretty face was lined with tension as the warcraft made its way towards the underwater fortress. She strained to pick up any signs of movement, all too aware that an ambush could be waiting somewhere in the murky waters. While the Dolphin was equipped to defend itself in such situations, since they were currently operating with only two active members on board, they would have to seriously scramble to counter any attack.

Doctor Gilmore stood in the middle of the bridge for precisely that reason. Ivan's bassinet sat comfortably on the chair beside him. The scientist watched her work in silence; for the moment, this resolute, alert woman bore little resemblance to the delicate ballerina she had once been. The competency and resolve she showed somehow caused the doctor's heart to twist with grief and swell with pride at the same time.

"Do you see anything, 003?" he asked softly, not wanting to distract her.

"Nothing yet," came the tense reply, as aquamarine eyes continued to survey their surroundings with minute precision.

The scientist sighed quietly, but neither relaxed their guard, as the Dolphin drew ever closer to the enemy stronghold. The tension that had filled the ship since the departure of their comrades only increased with each passing moment. Both prayed that they would arrive in time to make a difference, no matter how small…

~ * ~

(Must hurry, must hurry…)

Keys clacked rapid-fire, creating an almost deafening racket when compared to the grim silence that hung over the rest of the laboratory. The man hunched over the terminal worked feverishly, not wanting to spend a second longer than was necessary retrieving the required files.

Once again, Black Ghost had misjudged the accursed 00-number renegades. And, once again, those in his employ found themselves hard-pressed to deal with the aftermath.

Their commander had overestimated the amount of time it would take for the rebels to arrive at the underwater fortress. Ideally, they should have been able to evacuate all human personnel prior to the renegades' arrival; unfortunately this turned out not to be the case. A handful of scientists still remained on-site, though all save one were already gathered at the predetermined escape vessel.

Doctor Williamson's current run of bad luck seemed determined to continue, much to his dismay. Before they had a chance to depart, Black Ghost had contracted the group and announced that he expected someone to return and retrieve certain files from their databanks. It was a precautionary measure, one that logically should have been completed before the situation got this bad; however, nobody ever pointed out flaws in their commander's reasoning.

…Plus there was the niggling little detail that Williamson wasn't entirely certain this was an oversight on Black Ghost's part. He had been ordered on this mission directly; somehow he had emerged in the eyes of his master as the representative of his little group.

Standing out was often a terrible burden in the shadow organization. Unless you were a high-ranking officer in your own right, to be singled out by the masked tyrant often resulted in horrible consequences. It was no mere coincidence that most of the names commonly recognized by the typical employee belonged to those who had been made an example of. Mentioning one of those names to your comrades resulted in shaking heads and mutterings about the poor fool's fate.

(…Did you hear about what happened to Williamson? …Poor wretch…)

Biting the inside of his lip, Williamson worked faster, tapping his fingers impatiently against the top of the keyboard while waiting for the last of the files to be transferred over to disc. With all the latest technology in the world at their fingertips, why oh why did they still have to struggle with systems that seemed slower than they ought to be…?!

He took little comfort in the fact that the others couldn't leave before he got back to the ship. Black Ghost had made it clear that he expected them to depart only with copies of the requested data in hand. Escaping without it was meaningless; the survivors would only live up to the point where he checked in on them and discovered their defiance of direct orders…

But that didn't mean the temptation wasn't there. Williamson couldn't exactly blame his coworkers if they happened to crack under the pressure -- not that it would do him any good if they did, of course! The nature of their organization seemed against the formation of friendship between workers.

The thin bar measuring the length of the download was almost completely filled. Just a few seconds more, then he could grab the disc and go…

The exit hissed open, and Williamson spun around to gape at the figure standing beyond the portal. His heart pounded frantically against his chest, its harsh rate scarcely slowing as recognition sparked in his bulging eyes.

"Y…you…"

He somehow managed to force the stunned whisper out of his constricted throat. The computer pinged softly behind him, signaling the completion of his task. That barely registered with the scientist, despite the urgency of his mission -- temporarily pushed to the back of his mind while he struggled to process the image before him, and all its implications.

Some sick impulse of curiosity or his meticulous scientist's nature kept his gaze riveted mostly on the creature's face. He recalled some of its features clearly -- the same face seemed to haunt his worst imaginings lately -- but only part remained close to what he remembered. Vicious wounds pockmarked the right side, stretching over what had once been pale and unblemished skin. Scraggly ebony bangs helped conceal the horrific sight of an eye closed by swollen sores, while its mate blazed peridot hellfire on the less damaged left side.

That single eye focused upon Williamson, and the shapeshifter's thin lips tugged upward in what was either a leer or a grimace.

"Doctor…" Mimic's voice came out in a low rasp, grating on the petrified man's burning ears. "Doctor…"

She lurched forward, taking first one halting step toward him, then another. The shapeshifter could have closed the distance between them within seconds, but instead took her time.

Williamson almost understood why. Some part of his mind that wasn't spewing out frightened gibberish at a rate that matched his heartbeat noted that the cyborg's perception was undoubtedly marred by her ruined eye. He could pick out several wounds on her slender, black-clad body, and knew without a doubt they resulted from some encounter with the renegades.

Still, that didn't give him the confidence to try running away. Williamson knew Mimic's capabilities all too well: his hand in her creation was to thank for that, no matter how little the knowledge helped at this moment. Only one tiny detail gave him the slightest bit of hope, and he fumbled clumsily through his lab coat as the shapeshifter drew ever closer.

Finally his fingers closed over a slender object. Williamson felt a hysterical smile spread across his lips, and he looked sharply back at the approaching cyborg. The triumphant, feverish gleam in his eyes actually caused her to pause, the vaguest hint of confusion sparking in the undamaged green iris.

Pulling out the black metal cylinder, Williamson held it out in front of him like a warding talisman. He propped himself up against the table behind him with his free hand, trying to steady himself much in the same way he fought to stabilize his voice before daring to speak.

"St…stay right where you are," he commanded; despite his newfound resolve the doctor's voice still trembled slightly, betraying the fear that still clenched his heart. Nudging his fingernail under the protective sheath, he popped it open to reveal the button concealed inside, and moved his thumb over it. "Or, so help me, I'll…"

Mimic narrowed her good eye, glaring stonily at the shivering coward. She made no further move toward him, but her arms remained slightly upraised, hands morphed into curved talons.

"…I take it that's my control unit?" she inquired testily.

Williamson hoped his expression didn't betray how flummoxed he was by that simple query. To the best of his knowledge, Mimic had been kept ignorant of the measures taken to ensure her continued loyalty to the organization. They had feared that should the cyborg learn of their precautions, she might discover a way to circumvent them, and then…

He took a deep breath, calming himself. She had been allowed to witness some of the other shapeshifter's rehabilitation, despite his private reservations on that decision. So it shouldn't have come as such a surprise that she'd drawn her own conclusions based on what she'd seen.

"…Actually, that's not precisely the case. If you're thinking of the system we used to control the other one… Well, that's partially based on the technology used in your situation, but that's also quite a bit more advanced. For you, things were done a bit simpler."

His insight helped give him strength, allowing him to take a small measure of pride in what he understood that the shapeshifter failed to comprehend. Though Mimic's ruined face remained neutral, he imagined he could see more confusion and frustration in her expression than she actually showed.

A slightly smug smile curled his lips, and Williamson pulled himself up straighter, forcing himself to face the creature he'd created.

"I press this, and your systems overload instantly. It's a much cruder tactic than the one we used with the other one, but based on the same principle. Besides, you're more disposable…"

The peridot eye fixed upon him narrowed further, and then, much to his astonishment, Mimic began to smile. Her smirk was twisted terribly by her mangled features, but even that wasn't as horrifying as the faint laugh that followed. Williamson stared at her, taken aback by her surreal reaction.

(…She's damaged worse than I thought,) he decided abruptly, repressing a shudder of terror. (There's no other way to explain it…)

…At least, there were no other ways to explain her reaction that he wanted to consider. Williamson fumbled to retrieve the disc from the computer behind him, never tearing his eyes from the insane shapeshifter.

Suddenly Mimic stopped laughing, cutting herself off as suddenly as she'd begun. Smirk twisting into a full-fledged leer, she advanced, taking another step toward the scientist.

Jerking backwards reflexively, Williamson suppressed a gasp and slammed his thumb down on the trigger still gripped tightly in his hand. All thoughts of keeping the cyborg alive for further study fled in the interest of self-preservation.

It only took a second for it to register in his fear-clouded mind that the shapeshifter wasn't dropping to the floor convulsing, as he'd expected. Instead, Mimic continued to move steadily closer, her pace completely unhurried.

"H-how…"

"You're an idiot, doctor." Her skin began to ripple slightly, currents coursing along the front of her chest and spreading along her limbs. The ebony began to bleed out of her body, replaced by bands of other shades as she hissed, "Did you really think that I'd keep wearing the stupid thing after seeing what it did to the other one…?"

Williamson's mouth dropped open, but he never got a chance to reply. Skin still pulsing wildly, Mimic lunged for the paralyzed scientist, ebony claws aimed for his chest and throat. There wasn't even a scream so much as a gurgled cry as blood splattered against the computer behind them.

~ * ~

Joe crouched behind the shattered hulks of a pair of robot drones he'd recently dispatched, trying to catch his breath before hurtling himself back into the fray.

How many of the android soldiers did that make…? He hadn't precisely been able to keep track of the amount he'd gunned down so far. All that really mattered was that they kept coming in droves, filing into the room that 009 and 004 were pinned down inside, heedless of how many of their comrades lined the floor.

A thud beside him signaled Albert's arrival; the blur of crimson, gold and silver was easily discernable from the green armor of their enemies, so Joe didn't immediately point his gun at his comrade. He barely even glanced at the German, focusing instead on the open door. So tantalizingly close, and yet, with soldiers arriving so frequently…

Already four more drones lumbered through the gate. Joe lined up his sights with the forehead of the one in the lead before standing up and firing. The magnum energy tore into metallic skin -- one, two, three shots and it was down, and so was Joe, ducking to avoid the counterattack launched by its companions.

Beside him, Albert hissed with frustration, causing the Japanese cyborg to shoot him a concerned glance. The German's left hand was folded over his stomach, doing little to conceal the telltale rips in his combat uniform, and he was glaring at the gunmetal gray fingers of his right. He didn't have to say anything to let Joe know of his latest problem.

Biting his lip, Joe silently acknowledged his own contribution to their dilemma: the charge on his blaster was dwindling, and he knew from experience that there weren't many shots left in the super gun.

He risked a glance back toward the door; the three remaining robots were being reinforced by another pair of guards. More were undoubtedly on the way, so even if they managed to wipe out this wave, or the next, it was only a short matter of time before they were completely overwhelmed.

They needed to get back to the others. From what Joe understood from the few short communiqués they'd received in the brief span of time following 005's announcement, Francoise was bringing the Dolphin around to where they'd first entered the complex. He wasn't about to send a distress message now; even if he told the others to leave without them, it would likely only bring those who weren't too injured to respond running, and he didn't want to risk everyone else's safety.

One idea for escaping had occurred to Joe, yet he was a little reluctant to take it. It wasn't concern for himself that made him hesitate, but for the more heavily wounded cyborg beside him. The gashes in Albert's stomach, while not too deep, were still long and jagged, thanks to the shapeshifter they'd fought. There wasn't any time to bind them up properly, and Joe wasn't certain they wouldn't be adversely affected by his plan.

Ironically, it was also anxiety over Albert's worsening condition that made him decide to take the risk.

"004, can you clear the way?" he hissed urgently under his breath.

Silver-blue eyes flicked briefly in his direction, and the German nodded curtly, no doubt already guessing his companion's intentions. His knee popped open with a sharp click, and he braced the limb with both hands, carefully taking aim before letting the missile fly.

The projectile landed perfectly in the midst of the handful of drones blocking the doorway, and as they were blown away the partners stood swiftly. Joe grabbed onto Albert, giving the silver-haired cyborg just enough time to wrap his arms around the younger man's torso before clicking his jaw.

Instantly his perception of time slowed, the smoke billowing from the smoking crater rising far more slowly than before. Joe sprang forward, Albert hanging on tightly as he darted out into the hallway and away from the guards.

This wasn't a trick Joe was able to pull often. If he'd attempted it with any human, the sudden velocity would have ripped their body to shreds. That precaution didn't apply to his fellow cyborgs, however.

He didn't emerge from acceleration mode until they reached a hallway that was clear of guards, mercifully close to their destination. Joe immediately turned to check on Albert, feeling the German's grip loosen after they came to a stop.

"You doing okay, 004?"

He sincerely hoped that it was only his imagination that the other's face seemed a shade paler than normal. Albert was folded over slightly, both arms pressing the tears in his jacket shut, but at least he was still standing.

"…I'm okay," he managed at length, straightening slightly and lurching forward. "Let's just get moving, okay?"

Joe nodded shortly in agreement, then turned and hurried down the hall, drawing his blaster again just in case he needed to use the last of its charge.

A dull roar thundered up behind them when they were just a few feet from the door. Both spun around in time to see Jet cut short the boosters in his heels and land expertly on both feet. Pyunma was weakly hanging onto the aerial fighter, one arm looped around the taller cyborg's neck. Both appeared to be badly beaten up; the front of Jet's uniform looked as if it had been scorched away, revealing his alarmingly blackened chest, and Pyunma looked like he was barely conscious.

"002?! 008?!" Joe blurted out when he saw their bedraggled state.

"Don't even start now, 009," spat Jet, narrowed bronze eyes flashing angrily beneath his tousled bangs. "Whine _after_ we're outta here, okay?"

Joe snapped his jaw shut, not even registering the fact that he nodded numbly at the command until after they'd clambered into the docking area. The Dolphin was already waiting for them, having surfaced just enough for them to reach the entryway. Chang waved frantically to them from where he waited beside the hatch, and shouted for them to get on. He was barely understandable; the sentry's voice cracked in mid-sentence, and it was obvious from his manner the poor man was distracted.

Everyone clambered on board; Jet, the last to climb on, slammed the portal shut behind him and sealed it, feeling the Dolphin already begin to sink back underwater. He jumped down to join the others, already hearing the agitated Chang blabbering about where everyone else was.

"005 went to join 003 on the bridge, and Gilmore's already taken 007 to get repaired, but I don't know if -- I hope that -- Are you boys okay?! 004… your chest, and -- Jet, what happened to your…"

"Later," snarled the hawk, pushing past the others and making his way toward the bridge. A shadow fell over the top half of his face as he strode off, muttering, "Least we're getting out of this godforsaken…"

The rest of his words were lost to those left behind, growled too softly to be discernable to the remaining cyborgs. Albert sank into a seat with a sigh, gazing through half-lidded steel blue eyes at the ceiling. His inscrutable gaze tracked over to Pyunma when the aquatic expert followed his lead, dropping into a nearby chair and looking half-ready to pass out from exhaustion.

Joe understood the feeling, and would have moved to join them if it wasn't for the fact that Chang was still standing there looking absolutely lost. Though some of the sheer frantic energy he'd exhibited when shooing everyone inside had drained away, what remained in its place was a mixture of confusion, frustration, terror and overwhelming sorrow that tore at the sensitive leader's heart to behold.

"006…" he turned to fully face the chef, crouching slightly to be more on his shorter comrade's level. The fire-breather didn't appear to have any physical injuries, but that probably didn't matter in the least, considering the situation… Garnet eyes filled with sympathy, Joe softly asked, "Are you going to be okay…?"

"………I don't know." This was whispered softly, as Chang shook his head slowly at length.

"……… …006, I think everything's going to be alright now. We got out of there, didn't we…?" Joe attempted a comforting smile, but it seemed to be lost on Chang, so he continued tentatively, "I know 005 said that 007 was hurt, but still, you managed to save him, right…? …So it's all going to be…"

"…I'm not so sure."

"…What?"

"You don't understand, 009… W-when… when 007 got hurt, it was…"

Chang shook his head again, a bit more violently this time. Joe realized with growing alarm that the chef was bordering dangerously on tears when the shorter cyborg met his concerned gaze.

"…006… you…"

"…Joe, he stabbed himself."

The leader of the 00-team felt his eyes widen at that little revelation, completely unable to hide his shock. He stared blankly at Chang for a few seconds as it sunk in, his own eyes beginning to burn with tears.

Albert and Pyunma looked sharply at each other, equally taken aback by this news. At length, Pyunma bowed his head and slumped forward in his seat, shaking his head slowly. Albert sat stiffly in his chair, glassy blue eyes squeezing shut after a few seconds.

"…He hurt himself," Chang repeated miserably, trembling a bit as all-too-fresh memories swept over him. "They were making us fight him, and then… he tried… tried to…"

He stared at the ground, shaking as his rapidly deteriorating self-control further frayed and broke apart. At a loss for words, Joe leaned forward and laid his arms over Chang's shoulders, then pulled the chef closer when 006 began to sob. He heard Chang murmur something about not understanding why; it was barely discernable, too contorted with grief to make out clearly.

…Not that it mattered all that much to him.

…They'd gotten out. They'd gotten away, but… somehow, despite that, Joe didn't quite get the impression that they'd won just yet.

…Was it just that their victory had yet to sink in? They'd accomplished what they'd come here for, to free their lost comrade from Black Ghost, but, all the same…

He wasn't certain what to think. So instead, he sat there and tried to comfort his exhausted comrade, despite his private distress.

~ * ~

The Dolphin was not the only craft escaping the fortress. On the far side of the base, a sleek vessel pulled out of port, rapidly picking up speed as it headed deeper into the ocean.

Inside, blank-eyed robots worked the controls while their human cargo milled around in the back of the ship. Though there were few truly deep bonds or camaraderie to be found in the ranks of Black Ghost's scientists, those on board did share a common relief over their safe evacuation.

After all, those accursed 00-traitors had attacked! Small miracle they hadn't been slaughtered to a man, let alone lost a single one of their number to those defective cyborgs. Now, so long as Black Ghost deigned not to blame them for the unfortunate outcome of this plan, they were safe.

Heaving a fervent sigh of relief, a dark-haired scientist flopped down in one of the empty seats, briefly dropping the detached mask he and his comrades all wore in some fashion while working. Considering how narrowly they had dodged the bullet in this case, there didn't appear to be much harm in letting his guard drop momentarily.

His gaze rolled over to his left; one of his coworkers was next to him, looking out the circular window immediately adjacent to their seat. It didn't take long for the younger scientist to put a name to the face; this was the man they'd been forced to wait for before departing, the one assigned to retrieving some vital, last-minute data on the projects they'd conducted here.

In truth, he'd fully expected they'd end up leaving without the man. He'd been honestly surprised when the doctor arrived in time to catch the ship; another sign of how fortunate they'd turned out to be in the end, he supposed. 

"Thank God you got back when you did, Williamson! We were beginning to think we'd have to leave without you!"

…Not that they could without facing Black Ghost's wrath later, but that was a moot point, now. The black-haired scientist grinned, thankful for their survival.

The addressed man barely acknowledged his comrade's words. Instead, he continued to stare outside at the passing ocean, allowing the silence growing between them to become more awkward. Finally, uncomfortable with the lack of reception, the younger scientist shifted in his seat and looked away, losing himself in his own private thoughts.

He'd never gotten a clear look at his companion's face. If he had, it was still unlikely he would have noticed something rather unusual about the older man. The features were perfect, calm and composed, strange considering how narrowly he and his coworkers had evaded death. The oddest thing, however, was that his right eye was a shade paler than its mate, the dark pupil bearing a glassy sheen.

Briefly resting his hand against the disc nestled safely in the pocket of his pristine white lab coat, Doctor Williamson smiled smugly at his reflection in the portal and said nothing, watching as the underwater fortress vanished into the midnight waters behind them.


	20. Liberation

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As always, the disclaimers are located back in the first chapter notes. Finally got this finished…! I apologize for the undue delay, and thank you for your patience and continued feedback. I also apologize for the fact that this accursed thing morphed into an apparent trilogy somewhere along the line… ack… Now that this is done, I'm considering going and banging my head on the wall for a while for letting this spin out like this…

~ * Liberation * ~

One of the most irritating aspects of time is how it never seems to keep pace with anyone else's wishes. At times where there is little to be done other than wait, the minutes trickle past slowly. But without warning the currents pick up speed, and in the blink of an eye one goes from having too much time on one's hands to struggling to find enough to complete whatever must be done.

Doctor Gilmore sank into his chair with a sigh, reluctantly giving in to the demands of his aching frame. The elderly scientist's body protested his continued participation in this race: a coarse knot of pain had formed in his back, demanding he cease for the time being and turn his attention towards self-maintenance.

Closing his eyes, he gently ran his fingers along the length of his creased brow in an attempt to somewhat assuage his growing headache. Too many hours of staring at computer screens caused the burning sensation that throbbed just behind his eyelids.

Still, he only allowed himself a few seconds before leaning forward once again, fingers resuming their practiced dance over the keys as he committed more information to memory and database alike.

His back's protest at the movement went ignored; the needs of his own body were trivial in comparison to all that still remained to be done. The good doctor was used to spending long hours slaving away on projects, a talent he had all but perfected beneath his former employer. While he knew from experience he would pay for his delays later, he considered that unimportant at the moment.

What mattered was how they had looked when they arrived, when he saw firsthand what 005 had reported so tersely. Prior experiences taught the scientist to expect and prepare for the worst, and yet did little to reduce the shock of seeing anyone he cared for injured.

…Especially since Geronimo had neglected to mention precisely how the shapeshifter had been wounded.

In retrospect it made some sort of sense… serving to confirm certain suspicions that he'd been grappling with even before 007's abduction. That certainly didn't mean Gilmore was pleased to discover his suppositions were correct.

He wasn't truly upset with the noble 005 for failing to mention the nature of the shapeshifter's injuries. It was an understandable oversight, even though -- or perhaps especially since they had surely witnessed…

…No, he couldn't fault either one for being distracted. How could anyone be expected to think clearly in the face of all that had happened at the base?

Still, it had been jarring to realize that the lifeless figure cradled so tightly in the strongest cyborg's arms was dying from self-inflicted wounds. Sickening to discover how deeply he had driven his claws into himself… to think that someone who had once seemed so vibrant and cheerful reduced to openly seeking his own death…

What could have brought him down so far? Gilmore wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know all the details, helpful as that knowledge would be in finding a more permanent solution.

…Besides, Britain had already shown prior to his abduction he definitely didn't wish to discuss what he'd been going through. Whether or not that would change after he recovered… though the doctor wanted to be positive, privately, he sincerely doubted the chances of that.

(One step at a time,) he reminded himself sharply, monitoring the readouts before him even while typing incessantly away. The important thing was to ensure that G.B. would at least have the chance to deal with his personal problems in the future, regardless of how long it ended up taking…

The scientist's tired gaze shifted away from the screen to where his patient lay. Though the shapeshifter's hand was no longer buried in his side, the improvements in his condition seemed woefully slight. He still looked far too frail, a shadow under the sheets covering his battered frame… a phantom tethered to this world by the machines pushing him along the road to recovery.

Gilmore was already suppressing the gruesome operation, not wanting to remember the agonizing process of prying Britain's hand free, rushing to seal the cruel gashes left behind. Living through the nightmarish procedure had been difficult enough once; he had no desire to replay it over and over again while he worked now.

At least Britain's condition had finally been stabilized enough that he could move on to other matters, tasks that would hopefully speed the shapeshifter's physical recovery.

Refocusing on the screen, Gilmore called up one of the programs he was running and scanned the displayed information. To his relief, the procedure was still going smoothly: the vaccine appeared to be working normally, without any hint of a problem.

Doctor Gilmore had fully expected Black Ghost to use the virus that had given them so much trouble before on 007 again, so he wasn't surprised to find traces of it in the transforming cyborg's system. It hadn't managed to take complete control like before; he wasn't certain whether this was because of the vaccine he'd created, or something else entirely. Still, he wanted to ensure the infection was completely neutralized.

The virus hadn't been completely responsible for 007's torment this time, however.

The torn remains of the dark uniform 007 had been wearing before lay on the countertop nearby. After ensuring Britain's condition was stable, the good doctor had taken a bit of time to look over the suit, and while he hadn't yet run a full analysis on it, from what he'd already observed Gilmore believed he was getting a better picture of what exactly had transpired.

By running his hands along the inside he discovered innumerable tiny barbs embedded within the fabric. He'd pricked himself several times while handling it; while he'd quickly figured out that the outside layer was smooth and safe to touch, a certain morbid curiosity made him keep working on the coarser side, observing how it responded to being flexed and moved about.

Judging from the cursory summary 005 had given him of their encounter with 007, it seemed this played a key role in Black Ghost's manipulation of the shapeshifter. Clearly the tyrant had a back-up plan in case the virus didn't work; the suit itself was wired to shape what it covered.

He'd seen the results himself while peeling the uniform off. The barbs were small enough that it was difficult to see most of the marks they'd left, but there were patches where the tiny needles must have pierced more often, concentrated mostly on 007's arms, chest and neck.

It was the wounds he couldn't see that troubled Doctor Gilmore the most. The physical damage the suit had inflicted was minimal: after all, what good was a method of manipulating someone if they died in the process? Even the most obviously damaged areas would heal, leaving scars of a different sort to be dealt with.

Again the doctor's hand strayed to his brow, and he shook his head in further attempt to shake off the wave of exhaustion washing over him. He squinted slightly, narrowing his eyes just enough that the faint blurriness creeping into his vision was dispelled, and began to type again.

You're going to run yourself down if you keep this up, Doctor.

The scientist's head jerked upright: despite the familiarity of the voice and the fact he'd been half-expecting the reprimand it still took him off guard. Straightening his shoulders, he continued typing even while mulling over a proper response.

Apparently he took too long to reply, for the faintest sense of annoyance trickled through his thoughts. There was movement at the edge of his vision, and Gilmore knew that if he turned his head he would have seen the basket sitting in the seat beside him floating gently upward.

That was more or less the reason why he didn't turn to look. Instead he stared steadfastly at the screen and kept working.

You've done more than enough already. 007's going to be fine now, thanks to you.

"001…" the doctor used a bare whisper to respond despite the knowledge that their conversation wasn't likely to wake up his patient. "You know it's not as simple as that…"

You've done all you can for now. He isn't in immediate danger anymore.

Gilmore shook his head again; just because the shapeshifter's condition was stabilized didn't mean he didn't fear the possibility of a relapse. He couldn't just leave now, and while he couldn't find the exact words to explain this to the youngest cyborg, his thoughts alone conveyed the message to Ivan.

Don't worry. You're not the only one capable of looking after him. And considering your condition, it's probably better for everyone concerned if you let me take over and get some rest. How long has it been?

Honestly, Gilmore had to admit that it had been a bit too long. He hadn't gotten more than a few restless hours of sleep since the assassin's attempt on his life; again, there were too many concerns that far outweighed details like resting. He was fully aware he was pushing it, but that was irrelevant, both at the time and now. They needed him…

We need you to stay healthy, Doctor, interjected Ivan. With everything that's happened, the last thing we need is you wearing yourself thin like this.

He couldn't deny the logic in that, but there was still so much waiting to be done. He'd been so preoccupied with saving G.B. that he hadn't been able to check on the rest of the team. He knew from status reports that he'd received after their departure that most of the away team members had been injured: nothing life-threatening, thank the stars, but still requiring he examine them more closely…

Already checked on them; everyone's fine, more or less. 008 mostly has a concussion, which he's already sleeping off… Left unspoken was the implication that the African could have gotten off far worse than he had. 002 and 004 are doing alright, no serious internal injuries or anything, and 005, 006 and 009 are functioning fine. There's nothing that won't keep for tomorrow.

Easy enough to say, but still… Still, he was more comfortable staying awake and available in the event that things worsened…

If anything happens, and Ivan's firm mental tone made it clear he didn't expect anything to occur, I'll wake you up if we need your assistance. I promise.

Again the doctor shook his head, irritated both by Ivan's persistence and the sneaking suspicion that sooner or later he'd have to comply with the babe's wishes. It certainly wasn't as if his body rebelled at the thought of sleep in the same fashion his heart was. His back still ached dully, and his eyesight was beginning to blur again, making it difficult to read what he was writing.

Good night, Doctor Gilmore.

Gilmore would have told Ivan that he wasn't planning on dozing off just yet if another blanket of exhaustion hadn't swept over his senses at that exact moment. The scientist blinked, then sagged back in his seat as all resistance swept out of him and his eyes drifted closed.

Ivan smiled behind his pacifier, allowing himself a moment of smug satisfaction as he stopped levitating his bassinet to near eye-level with the doctor and let it settle back down on the chair.

Oh, the doctor was likely to be cross with him once he woke up -- if he realized what the psychic infant had done. That was somewhat doubtful, however: the poor man had been so exhausted that it hadn't taken more than a little nudge in the right direction to send him into slumberland. He might not even recall most of their little conversation, with the sorry state he'd already been in by that point.

It amused Ivan a little that Gilmore didn't seem to recognize that he could be just as obstinate as the best of them at times. But then, everyone in their little group tended to be stubborn when it came to putting the needs of their teammates above their own.

…Which wasn't a terrible personality flaw to have -- if you considered being compassionate and caring a flaw, which Ivan certainly didn't -- but could lead to certain annoyances at times.

The baby shifted in his bassinet, gripping the side with both tiny hands. There wasn't much to see in the chamber other than the sleeping scientist and his patient, but Ivan wanted to take the chance to look around anyway. Staring at the ceiling got old after awhile, and was especially frustrating at times like this.

He'd only awakened recently -- around the time that they were escaping from the Black Ghost base, ironically enough -- but was more or less aware of what had occurred during his rest. The others often marveled at how he typically managed to awaken more or less right when they seriously needed his aid, but so far nobody seemed to have figured out precisely why that was.

Ivan hadn't chosen to breach the issue yet, because he didn't know how they'd react to the news that he more or less 'dreamed' of them. There were plenty of aspects of his powers that even the psychic infant didn't fully understand yet… how could he explain what he saw of their exploits while he was sleeping to them?

There was the sound of furtive movement outside: Ivan had identified the visitor long before he approached the doorway. All the same, he turned his head when the portal swished open to admit Chang inside.

"Doctor Gilmore?"

The chef approached, stopping short when he got close enough to see that the scientist was fast asleep. He looked surprised for a moment, then smiled, setting down the tray he carried on the nearby counter.

"…Well, I guess he won't be needing this as much as I thought," he said softly, referring to the mug he'd brought in.

He didn't sound put off in the slightest by this. Leaving the drink where he'd set it down, Chang walked over to another part of the room, briefly leaving Ivan's range of sight. He returned a few minutes later with a spare blanket borrowed from the supply room, which he laid carefully over the good doctor. The prideful smile he had after straightening and studying the sleeping man faded as his gaze tracked over to the occupied cot.

006…

Chang looked back to the infant with a slight start, blinked, then smiled and nodded as he quickly caught on to what the Russian cyborg was thinking. Picking up the bassinet, he carried it over and sat down next to the bed, cradling the basket in his lap.

Ivan didn't need to delve into the chef's mind to sense his concern over his friend's condition: practically anyone would be able to tell just by looking at the Chinese cyborg. Instead, he focused upon the shapeshifter, gently pressing deeper through the layers of his tortured mind.

He had to take things slowly, proceeding with the utmost caution. A part of him wondered if it was wise for him to be attempting this at all, but judging from what he'd witnessed through his visions Ivan couldn't simply sit back and do nothing at all. It was clear Britain needed support, regardless of whether he sought for or even wanted it… He had to do something, if only to ensure the shapeshifter stayed on the road to recovery.

The alternative was… not an option.

So, with Chang drifting half in and out of slumber somewhere behind him, Ivan set himself to the task of helping G.B. whether he liked it or not.

~ * ~

…It wasn't fair.

Wasn't the pain supposed to have ended by now…?

He felt a bit guilty… leaving the others behind like this… abandoning them after so much had happened… They'd been trying to save him, he knew, but…

…Chang probably had it the worst, since circumstance forced him to let the chef witness it. He remembered seeing the horror on his best friend's face… wanted to apologize, but didn't know if he'd been able to before the darkness swept over him again.

He wished he'd had time to explain… but he'd needed to take the unexpected chance before it was taken away from him just like everything else had been…

It hurt… still hurt…

…why…?

…Why hadn't it stopped hurting yet…? Shouldn't it have…?

It hadn't taken this long before… back in the tank his senses were stolen away within seconds, or so it seemed… it was hard to judge…

…but it hadn't taken this long, he was fairly sure of that.

…Was it different because this would be the last time…? He wouldn't be waking up… he couldn't go back… did it just seem longer because of that…?

…No… why…?

……maybe… he…

…No.

No.

This had to be it.

It had to end now.

It had to stop.

He couldn't take this anymore.

He couldn't…

…couldn't wake up…

…He couldn't wake up, because then the nightmare would begin again.

He couldn't take it anymore…

The pain was supposed to be going away… why wasn't it…

…No… it wasn't leaving… it wasn't fading… wasn't over…

…It wasn't fair!

He didn't want to wake up! He didn't want to keep going on… he couldn't go on like this!

Why…

…because he was weak…

…too weak to fight it… too weak to do anything…

Just like Black Ghost had told him… just like what the others had to think…

…He was too weak… too weak to be worthwhile… too weak to live… or keep from living, apparently…

…Wasn't there anything he was capable of…? He just wanted to die… couldn't he even do that…?

…Too weak to do anything he wanted… even end his suffering…

…Hah. Maybe that was it… It wouldn't be that easy to end it, would it…?

A weakling like him… didn't have the right to decide anything for himself…

…So the pain wouldn't end unless… he managed to get stronger…

…Was that even possible…?

…It had to be. He couldn't go on like this… and if he couldn't end it one way, he had to find another way of dealing…

…If he was stronger, he wouldn't have suffered in the first place…

…Maybe if he found a way… if he could become stronger somehow, then the pain would end…

…That had to be it…

If he was stronger, then… one way or another… it would end…

…It had to, or…

…or he would………

~ * ~

Reluctant awareness made the figure shift uncomfortably, a moan passing through his barely parted lips. His own soft groan only speeded his return to consciousness, and at length Britain's eyes cracked open.

The light was painful to behold. Though it wasn't blindingly bright in the room, his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, so it seemed harsher to him than it would to anyone else.

…This was not one of Black Ghost's laboratories. They tended to go to extremes: the labs were either flooded with light, plunged into darkness, or so dimly lit that the shadows still pervaded the room. But this chamber was none of those things. The lightning was almost… cheery… welcoming, familiar…

…Ah. That had to mean he was on the Dolphin, or someplace similar. It only made sense, considering the last things he'd seen before… failing again.

Britain closed his eyes, feeling his stomach knot painfully. The others had come to rescue him… despite the fact that they had to recognize he wasn't worth the effort. Had he ever been…?

His side throbbed painfully, the agony he'd felt from his wounds sharpening considerably as more of his senses returned. It wasn't nearly as wrenching as it had been the moment he stabbed himself, but still… just the fact that he was still feeling anything was a reminder that he'd managed to screw that up as well.

Wincing, he shifted his weight to the left, enough that he was able to look away from the ceiling and notice, instead, that he wasn't alone.

Chang was seated just a few feet away, Ivan's bassinet resting in his lap. At some point the chef had drifted off, but even now was stirring in his sleep, blinking wearily. The baby sitting attentively in his arms was wide-awake.

Welcome back, G.B.

Ivan's mental greeting seemed even softer than typical; Britain supposed the sensitive child was more aware than anyone else of what sort of state he was in. He supposed he should try smiling or something, but couldn't quite rally the energy just yet.

Chang shook off the after-effects of his nap soon enough, and blinked rapidly, astonishment flooding his face as he realized that the shapeshifter was facing him. A relieved smile quickly appeared, and he started to stand, only to awkwardly fall back into his seat thanks to his burden.

"G…G.B.…" he managed at length, choking slightly. "You… are you…"

There was far too much he wanted to say, too many questions he needed to ask and demands he needed to make, that settling on something was difficult enough without the added problem of struggling to speak. The thankfulness and relief on his face at seeing his friend conscious again was enough for the moment, however.

G.B. finally managed a slight smile for the chef's benefit. In his overwhelming excitement at seeing 007 awake, Chang wasn't quite able to discern how thin and drawn the expression was. Nearly blinded by the tears threatening to well in his eyes, he couldn't see that there wasn't any joy or relief in the shapeshifter's own.

Ivan was capable of seeing it, however. The infant felt a pang of regret as he took in the dullness in Britain's eyes, noticing a darkness that he didn't remember there. Although they could claim a victory over some of Black Ghost's machinations, it was obvious to the infant there was still a long road ahead of them dealing with the consequences.

The worst part was the foreknowledge that he couldn't force matters to turn out alright in the end. Even the young psychic could only do so much himself… and he couldn't repair all the damage that had been done.

Britain closed his eyes shortly, no longer able to watch the joyful visage of his friend. Why was Chang so excited, anyway…? Surely he had to understand that he wasn't anything to get worked up about… After all, he was weak, worthless, and more a liability to their group than anything else …

…But that would change. Britain was going to make certain of that.

Somehow, he had to find a way to make himself stronger. He didn't care what it took… all that mattered was that he found a way to keep from being useless to everyone else. He'd find out how to stop suffering… one way or another… the pain would end…

Reopening his eyes, Great Britain smiled at Chang and thought of how wonderful that end would be.


End file.
